


Can't Get Over It

by shihadchick



Series: Finds A Way [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biting, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Phone Sex, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 16:31:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6159718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all fun and games until you wind up on IR. </p><p>Nick Leddy's used to playing hockey, and he's used to being a vampire, but what he's unequivocally not used to is when one of those parts of his life totally screws up the other. And that's before he finds out that maybe he's been getting something else wrong all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Get Over It

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to Sociofemme for once again encouraging, supporting and beta-reading this for me; you're the best, bb <3
> 
> I don't believe any common warnings would apply to this story, but a further detail relating to the tags is in the end notes. If I have missed something you would prefer to have been warned for, or if you would like to ask for more details about content before reading please feel free to either comment here or email me directly (this username at gmail.com will reach me). 
> 
> As ever, please do not link this to anyone involved with people whose public personae inspired this story.
> 
> Set over March 2015; game details should be as close to canon as possible, everything else can be taken with a very large grain of hand-waving salt.

Nick doesn’t exactly pay a whole lot of attention to, well, anything outside his usual orbit. He plays hockey, he spends too much time on his phone and his computer talking to Brandon, he calls his family, he goes out with his friends. It’s not as if he doesn’t pay attention to current events, he’s pretty well informed, but generally speaking the news doesn’t have a whole lot of impact on his daily life.  
  
And then there’s a blood supplement shortage for some damn reason that Nick isn’t entirely sure of - and it sounds like half the journalists reporting on it aren’t either, and most of them don’t sound like they care all that much besides - either it’s something to do with an equipment problem, or maybe industrial sabotage, and about all they’re sure of is that it’s not a supply problem, it’s manufacturing. And it’s going to take a few weeks to fix.  
  
The tabloids run the usual scare-mongering nonsense, warning of Vampires Out of Control!, although usually with a lot more punctuation, and flash the same blurry pictures of celebrities they are absolutely certain are secretly vampires that they always do when they’re choosing to be shocked and appalled by the fact that it’s perfectly legal to be drink the odd pint of blood, and has been for a couple hundred years. The mainstream media is a little more responsible, just suggesting that anyone who regularly drinks blood find some alternatives to tide them over, and gives a list of the local vamp-friendly clubs. They suggest anyone in desperate need check with their local ERs; the blood banks still don’t get enough donors to really be able to distribute to vamps unless it’s an actual emergency, so they’re not really a practical option.  
  
Nick does the same thing he suspects most people in his position would do: he stockpiles the hell out of all the powder he can find at his local pharmacy and grocery stores, and curses out the assholes reselling on Craigslist at enormous markups - with god only knows what kinds of adulteration, no thanks; Nick’s not fucking up his league-mandated blood tests by messing around with any of that shit.  
  
And then they’re still looking at another two, maybe three weeks to get distribution running smoothly again, supplies starting to trickle back into the usual outlets, and Nick runs out.  
  
He resigns himself to just suffering through the additional aches and pains that changing his diet at this point means. He also tries to steer clear of anyone who looks like they’ve got colds or the flu, since his usual immunity is basically gone, and tries to take it easy. He’s never had bad cravings, nothing like the crap they put on TV half the time; it’s a just a good addition, he feels healthier when he’s getting some O neg on the regular, and of course it’s a not-inconsiderable bonus when he’s getting laid, but it’s not going to do him any real, lasting harm to just go cold turkey for a couple weeks.  
  
The problem with a long-distance relationship is that by definition he can’t exactly tide himself over with that. He can talk to Brandon on the phone, and see him on Skype; he can get Brandon off in record time just by telling him how good he looks, what he wants to do with him. He can get himself off by watching that and by listening to Brandon’s suggestions - he has a surprisingly dirty mind for someone who seems so calm and mature - and that’s all great. It’s fucking fantastic, really, but the one thing he can’t do is actually bite Brandon, as much as they would both like that. And there’s no convenient breaks in the schedule again any time soon; they’d caught up over the All-Star Break and that had been great, but Nick knows he’s not seeing Brandon again until they’re in Chicago in March, and after that probably not again till one or both of them are out of the playoffs.  
  
Most of the time he can deal with that, can make it work, and while it would be nice to be able to supplement this shortfall by getting his teeth into his partner, well, that’s just how it is.  
  
And then Morgan Rielly hits him just a touch off center; a perfectly clean hit, if awkward, and Nick feels something go horribly wrong in his wrist, and-  
  
Well, then he’s kind of fucked.  
  
* * *  
  
He whines some to Brandon, after they get home that night, tired from a long flight and the delay to pass through Customs on top of all the hanging around through the third and OT while the trainers checked him out and tried to figure out if they needed to send him off for any other testing. They strap his wrist and tell him to get some sleep, take some painkillers, and come back to get checked out properly the next morning - later that morning - back in New York, since it doesn’t look like there’s anything that needs urgent attention.  
  
Nick hasn’t had to deal with this much pain in a while, even though he knows, logically, it’s not even close to the worst thing he’s done to himself. It’s just the first time in a lot of years that he hasn’t been able to take the edge off almost immediately afterward. Sometimes he’s taken a bad check and felt rough for a couple days; he heals fast, not instantly, and thank god he’s only rarely had to deal with any of the injuries that don’t respond well to vampiric healing, but as much as he tries to focus on that, it doesn’t make the immediate future any more appealing.  
  
Brandon sounds tired too, but he’d also been pretty obviously concerned, although Nick doesn’t realize that until they’ve been talking for five or ten minutes, which is about when he looks down at his watch to see if he can take another painkiller yet and sees just how late it is.  
  
“You don’t have a game tomorrow, right?” he blurts out, right over top of what Brandon’s saying. Technically, he does, or at least the Islanders do, the second half of the back-to-back. Against the fucking Rangers, too, but Nick knows he’s out for that game no matter what, and maybe longer. Shit.  
  
“No, we’re good, Q gave us the day off entirely. I can sleep late,” Brandon says, trying to pass it off as nothing. “It’s just a strain, though, right?”  
  
“I think so,” Nick says, shifting unhappily on his couch. He has to keep reminding himself he can’t hold the phone with his other hand, that he shouldn’t be moving it at all, if he can help it.  
  
“So you’ll be fine in, what, a couple days?” Brandon says, sounding more cheerful. He can read a calendar just as well as Nick can, and he’s got at least a general grasp on how Nick’s not-so-human side works outside of the bedroom, too.  
  
“Um,” Nick says, and it’s not like he can feel much more miserable, but he’s certainly giving it a shot right now, stomach twisting unhappily. “Probably… not, actually.”  
  
“Nick,” Brandon says sharply, “What? I thought you, you know. Heal quicker, normally.”  
  
Brandon’s watched thin scratches and light bruising disappear right in front of his eyes, has spent a significant amount of time laughing in Nick’s bed while he tried to leave a hickey that would stick for more than maybe overnight, teasing Nick nonstop and making terrible jokes about shot blocking; Brandon’s going to figure this out pretty fast even if Nick doesn’t tell him. And Nick wants to tell him anyway. Mostly what he wants is to complain about how shitty this timing is - on several levels - but he’s not above wanting some sympathy when he feels this bad. Especially since so much of this is entirely out of his control.  
  
“Uh, remember that whole shortage of commercially available blood thing that made the news the other week?” Nick asks.  
  
“Oh, shit,” Brandon says. “Leds, you’re— fuck, you’re out?”  
  
“Pretty much,” Nick says. “It’s not- it’s not an emergency, obviously, and under the circumstances the team docs think I should just let it heal. You know, normally.”  
  
He’s scowling again when he finishes; he hadn’t quite figured out how much of a drag this would be when they’d told him, hadn’t had time for the ache to really set in by then. He’s newly certain he wasn’t remotely sympathetic enough the last time any of his friends or teammates had been out injured.  
  
There’s a suspicious noise down the phone line then, and Nick narrows his eyes, glares at his TV like it’ll magically transfer that right to Brandon.  
  
“Are you laughing?”  
  
“No!” Brandon protests, but the very edge of amusement is coloring his tone, a faint snicker around the edges. “I mean. A little. You’ll get to see how the other half lives, huh?”  
  
“This sucks,” Nick says, and Brandon goes right back to serious, like he’s caught himself.  
  
“Yeah,” Brandon says, “I know. Sorry, Leds. I hope you can manage a, uh, ahead of schedule recovery.”  
  
“Not real likely unless one of us figures out teleportation,” Nick grumbles, and then catches himself.  
  
“I’d be there if I could,” Brandon says, softly, and they’re both quiet for a long moment.  
  
“I know,” Nick says with a sigh.  
  
He’d want to see Brandon even if there weren’t, uh, ‘additional benefits’ to seeing him, usually. It feels like they never have enough time, even if they’d probably spent more of the off-season together than was necessarily smart. It hadn’t done either of them any harm conditioning-wise, and they’d found out that they could live together well enough, which was good to know for reasons Nick doesn’t want to examine too closely.  
  
They’d fought a bit, sure, but no more than any other relationship Nick’s had, and they’d _worked it out_ afterward when they had, too, probably better than he’d managed with anyone else. Several years of being close friends living in each other’s pockets meant they both knew exactly which buttons to press, and how to compromise. Nick’s sure not complaining about any of it, except maybe the fact they didn’t get their collective act together sooner.  
  
“Anyway,” Nick says, remembering December, “even if you could get away long enough, it’s the middle of the season, I’m not— we agreed we shouldn’t.”  
  
“Did we?” Brandon says. “I’m pretty sure we did that just last month. Remember? You had your teeth in my neck and your hand on my dick and—”  
  
“Brandon,” Nick hisses, interrupting him before he can go any further down that path.  
  
Nick remembers very well just what exactly his teeth and his hands and his dick were doing last month; thinking about that too much is just going to make his teeth ache and leave him futilely turned on. He’s not exactly in the mood to go jerk off. He’s not sure how well he even can; writing’s about the only thing he does right-handed. This _sucks_.  
  
“You can’t argue you got some,” Brandon points out, quite rightly, and then snickers a little, because he might be mature and careful and measured more often than not, but he’s also still a 22-year-old guy.  
  
“Yeah, and you didn’t have a game for a couple days after,” Nick reminds him. “I’m not fucking up your season, too.”  
  
Neither of them had stopped to think twice when the Hawks had been in New York early in December; they’d had lunch with a few of the other guys, messed with Shawzy some, and then ditched them all to go back to Nick’s apartment and break in his new bed.  
  
It had been a relief to get his hands and his mouth on Brandon again after not seeing him for almost two months; they’d barely made it into Nick’s bedroom before both of them were naked. It hadn’t taken much longer than that to get Brandon spread out on his sheets, Nick sucking a bruise onto the side of his throat before responding to Brandon’s pleas and biting down, enjoying the sharp intake of breath and helpless moan that Brandon didn’t even bother trying to subdue almost as much as he did the hot rush of fresh blood filling his mouth.  
  
He hadn’t even taken much, one solid bite on the side of his neck and a teasing nip in the crease of his thigh before he’d gone back to sucking Brandon off, only a couple of mouthfuls all told, but he’d watched Brandon on the ice the day after, watched video the day after that, and—  
  
Well, it hadn’t cost the Hawks the game, or anything like that, but Brandon had seemed off, just the slightest bit slower, maybe, and that’s not how Nick wants to win. They’d talked over Skype a couple days after, and when Nick had raised the question, asked carefully how Brandon had felt after, he’d admitted that he’d felt a little more tired, maybe. Nick had been the one to suggest that they leave biting off the table in season—it’s not like they haven’t had plenty of sex without Nick needing to get his teeth involved—and Brandon hadn’t agreed in so many words, but he hadn’t argued either, which Nick figured meant he knew it was a good idea.  
  
He can’t blame him, really. Nick hasn’t slept with another vampire, isn’t sure he’d react the same to a bite as normal humans do anyway, but the way Brandon reacts—Nick wouldn’t say a blanket no to something that feels that good unless he really had to, either. So he’d just resigned himself to waiting for longer breaks, or the off-season; any time they’d have a couple of days off to recover. He’d never quite expected this situation, that’s all.  
  
“I’ll be fine,” Nick says again, after a moment where Brandon clearly can’t think of anything else to say either. Nick glances down again, and blanches. It’s so late, Nick can’t exactly pretend like they’re making good choices professionally if he’s going to keep himself and Brandon awake this much longer than they need to be. “Look, we should go to bed,” he says.  
  
“I wish,” Brandon jokes, with just enough of an edge that Nick knows he means it as more than just that.  
  
“Yeah. Me too, Saader,” Nick says, “And not just—you know, for that reason. But you should actually get some sleep, and I need to, too. Gotta be back at Iceworks pretty early to see the docs, and all that.”  
  
“You’re right,” Brandon says, and then, softly, “Call me tomorrow?”  
  
“As soon as I know more,” Nick assures him, and then they actually say goodnight. There’s no sense drawing it out any more than they already have, and then Nick’s alone in his apartment again with just the vague ache in his wrist for company.  
  
Nick kicks his overnight bag into the corner of his room, plugs his phone into the charger and changes out of his travel suit. It’s awkward to get out of the shirt and jacket without jarring his wrist any worse, but he manages, pops a couple of the OTC painkillers that live in his bathroom cabinet. He’d considered changing into sweats right after getting home, but figured quickly that if he just waited to strip off for bed then he’d only be looking at one painful change of clothing, not two. He sleeps naked more often than not; it’s not that cold in his apartment and it’s not like he has to worry about walking in on a roommate anymore, so there’s nothing new there, the only difference is that when he pulls back the covers—right handed—he has to be careful which side he curls up on. He tosses and turns for a little while, trying to get comfortable, but eventually habit takes over and he does fall asleep.  
  
Waking up is less than pleasant.  
  
He stretches before he remembers, pain arching sharply through his wrist and down into his hand, making his fingers twitch and ache until he can hold himself still for one breath and then a second. He’s more cautious getting up, hits his alarm off with his right hand like usual, dresses one-handed for the most part; not needing to worry about walking in and out past media means he can at least just pull on sweats for the drive over to Iceworks—and his plan stutters to a halt there, because sure, he could probably drive, awkwardly, but he definitely shouldn’t.  
  
With a sigh he picks his phone up again, texts one-handed to Boych to ask for a ride in, and then heads to the kitchen to see what he can throw together for breakfast. He goes on automatic to the cupboard where he usually keeps protein powder and his slightly-more-than-just-protein powder, because by his last year in Chicago he’d stopped storing it separately, what with Andy making jokes about his iron levels and making up smoothies for him when he felt like being nice without even blinking at the texture or smell, and when he remembers again that the empty jar is why he’s in this state to start with he has to hold back a reflexive growl.  
  
Fuck, he really—  
  
He really misses Brandon. And Kyle, and Bjugs, and even Kelly, although admittedly the last few trips he’d taken to Montreal they’d just caught up for a couple of drinks and not actually hooked up. Nick’s committed now, he’s not going to mess that up. Kelly told him over dinner that she’s seeing someone who wants to be monogamous, too, so neither of them were disappointed, which helped. It’s nice having friends in cities he visits more often these days too; she’d given him a great tip on a place to get dinner next time the Isles were in town, somewhere where the wine list might meet Okposo and Boych’s requirements, which was never a given.  
  
Boychuk nods good morning to him when Nick gets in the car, points at the second travel mug full of tea sitting in the cup holder, but doesn’t venture any further comment. Boych is not a morning person, Nick’s used to that by now, so he just nods and says thanks before he reaches across his body to pick it up, keeping his injured wrist tucked just above where the seatbelt sits low on his hips.  
  
“Good luck,” Johnny tells him, before heading off to start his workout, while Nick splits off towards the trainers rooms where the medical staff usually are. “We want you back out there as soon as possible, yeah?”  
  
“You know it,” Nick assures him, with a little more confidence than he feels.  
  
He’s still adjusting to a team that knows he’s not just plain human; who’ve known since he was traded. Sure, most of the Hawks know now, and that’s fine too, but it hasn’t been common knowledge anywhere for most of his life, and he’s just not used to that. Most of them don’t know a whole lot, which is pretty usual, but they know a little, because Nick’s not the only vampire on the Isles.  
  
He’d known he’s not the only one in the NHL; that was obvious, since there’s the specific inclusion in the CBA and all, and there have been rumors about Jagr pretty much since Jagr has been in the NHL. He’s heard about a few other guys, the ones with the vaguely suspicious streaks of good health, the ones who seem to bounce back from injury freakishly fast even by hockey standards, but he’s never actually known for sure. Not until he’d cleared his throat after they’d done the whole ‘meet the new guy’ bit on his first day at Nassau, and made an awkward joke, said, “Oh, uh, and by the way—”, explained that he’s got everything under control but wanted to start off on the right foot with them, and all that.  
  
He hadn’t understood why half the room had snickered until Hamonic had stood up, walked over to shake his hand, and said, “Hey, yeah, welcome to the team, Leddy, you’ll fit right in,” and then grinned at him with a _lot_ of teeth. So, yeah. Clearly they were pretty used to this whole deal.  
  
The team docs check him over, send him off for an x-ray just in case, and then sit him down to say that, yeah, it’s going to be at least a few games. It’s not like they could offer to get him blood to heal up faster; for one thing that’s pretty much on the side of his personal medical choices since he’s reduced to ‘normal’ healing, not actively endangering his health, and for another the league kind of frowns on that sort of thing when they find out about it.  
  
And they would, somehow.  
  
There’s a lot of rumors about the guys in the New York offices, and the Isles are physically close enough that their leash feels even shorter. Especially after that whole thing with the Flames and the flu vaccines, Nick doesn’t think the NHL wants any more publicity whatsoever about people jumping the queue for medical help. He’s kind of on his own with this one.  
  
He hangs around through the rest of practice, watches the guys on the ice and wishes he was out there getting yelled at by the coaches. It’s their last game against the Rangers at Nassau, for the regular season at least, and Nick might’ve only been here for a less than a season but he’s already feeling that. It’s hard not to get up for a rivalry like that, and watching from the press box is going to be tough.  
  
Needing a ride home as well means he’s pretty much at the mercy of Boych or anyone else who wants to go out of their way, so Nick heads back to the locker room and takes the ribbing he gets for missing time as philosophically as he knows how. He talks to Cal for a bit, since he’ll be taking the left side up with Boych, pretends not to notice Straiter looking relieved to be back in the lineup, and while he’s waiting for Boych to finish up he realizes that Hamonic is leaning against the side of his stall, clearly waiting for Nick’s attention.  
  
“They really think it’ll be a week or two?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “How bad did you tweak it, man?”  
  
Nick grimaces. He and Hammer had exchanged commiserating ‘well this sucks’ looks over the news when the shortage was a brief blip on the front pages, and Travis had just made a joke about going back to the traditional methods, which—at the time—Nick had laughed at.  
  
Right now he’s just jealous that Hammer’s fiancée lives with him.  
  
“Apparently it normally takes a week or two,” Nick says. “I haven’t needed to know before, I guess,” he adds, trying to make it a joke at his own expense, and also a way to distract himself from the way his wrist is throbbing again.  
  
He doesn’t think he’s missed a game due to injury since middle school, maybe. Other than the concussion back in Rockford. But Jesus, he really didn’t know how good he had it.  
  
“Yeah,” Hamonic says slowly, “But—”  
  
“Hey, who knows,” Nick says, “Maybe they’ll get the stores restocked ahead of schedule or something, might be back sooner.” It’s a little vague, sure, but while Nick’s better about owning his whole vampire thing these days it still feels kind of weird to stand in the locker room and just casually talk about buying blood. So sue him, he’ll default to euphemism. Travis knows what he’s talking about, and even if all their teammates know anyway it’s not like Nick likes to make a big deal about it. “I mean, sure, it sucks, but what am I gonna do?”  
  
Hamonic is still giving him a weird look, and Nick’s not sure what he’s done to deserve that. He’s toughing it out in the traditional stoic hockey player fashion, or at least he’s going to damn well pretend to where anyone can see him.  
  
“I’ve been out of the dehydrated stuff for a week too,” Hamonic says carefully, leaning a little too casually into the corner by Matty’s stall. No one else is even paying the slightest bit of attention to either of them now though, Nick is relieved to notice. “But, like. Just go out and get some, New York’s a big city, it’s not hard. I can probably rec a place if you want?”  
  
Nick blinks. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the offer, sure, but if he was going to go out and hook up he could also figure out where to go himself. Especially since his tastes are a little more, uh, broad than he suspects Hamonic’s are.    
  
“Long-distance kinda sucks for that,” Nick says, carefully; he and Brandon haven’t really talked about telling his new teammates yet, so he’s mentioned that he’s in a relationship vaguely, but no one pressed him for details and he hasn’t rushed to give them out either. He’d rather not play the pronoun game if he doesn’t have to; it feels so obvious that he’s not sure it would even be worth bothering, for one thing. “We’re, uh, exclusive?”  
  
“Well, sure,” Hamonic says, “It’s not like you’re fucking around on them. Two minutes on someone’s wrist and maybe you’ll get back a couple games early, huh?”  
  
Nick can’t help himself, he just stares dumbly at Hammer for a couple of seconds too long. “But—” he starts to say, and then thinks better of it.  
  
Hamonic’s picked up on something, though, because his brows draw together and he’s giving Nick a look that does not bode well for how much he’s going to enjoy the next few minutes of his life.  
  
Nick’s bracing himself—he’s not sure for what—but by then Boych has apparently finished getting dressed and having whatever discussion with Cal he’d been in the middle of, and without seeming to notice he’s interrupting, he bumps his hip against Nick’s and says, “Ready to go, Leds?”  
  
Nick blinks, catches himself right before he can look back at Hammer, because if it was important then he’d interrupt anyway, and Nick’s not exactly going to ask for permission or whatever just to get out of a slightly uncomfortable conversation with a teammate.  
  
It’s something he’s apparently willing to drop, though, because Hamonic just says, “Later, guys,” and lets them go without another word.  
  
He can’t tell if Boych noticed anything then either, but he doesn’t mention it on the drive back to Nick’s place. Instead, they spend half their time talking about the Rangers forecheck, and then after that starts feeling too much like work they segue onto spring training and the Mets chances for their season, and Johnny giving him shit about the Twins, who Nick maintains might not actually suck this year.  
  
Well, the odds aren’t good, but you never know, Nick figures.  
  
Boych drops him out front of his place after checking that he’s all good for groceries and doesn’t need anything else; Nick’s not entirely sure what he’s got in the fridge but he’s fairly certain he’ll be fine regardless. They’re in New York, for fuckssake, if he needs anything in the way of regular food he can almost certainly get it delivered without any hassle.  
  
He’s not really in the mood for lunch right away though; the combination of the late night, broken sleep, and low-level pain even with the painkillers he’s been taking exactly on schedule has conspired to pretty much kill his appetite. It’s not like he needs to fuel up ahead of a game or anything now anyway, so instead of fixing himself something to eat he just double-checks the schedule and the time, and then settles on the couch with his phone, going straight to Brandon’s name in his contacts. It’s been a rough day and he’s not even halfway through it yet, and that weird half-conversation with Hamonic is still weighing on his mind a little. Something to take his mind off all of that sounds like just what the doctor ordered. And Brandon _had_ told him to call.  
  
* * *  
  
“Hey Saader,” Nick says when Brandon picks up the phone, his voice soft as he says hello, familiar and warm to Nick’s ears.  
  
“Leds,” Brandon says back, echoing Nick. “How’d you get on with the docs?”  
  
“Yeah, it’s strained,” he says, appreciating the low sympathetic noise Brandon makes in reply to that. “Definitely out the next couple of games.”  
  
“You, uh. You could come here?” Brandon sounds almost diffident, suggesting that, and god, Nick is tempted. “You know. If you’re going to be out a couple games as it is…”  
  
He dangles the offer, and Nick can imagine it so easily: sliding right back into place the way they had been; Chicago in winter, calling up the same four takeout places they’ve all ordered from a hundred times, Brandon solid and warm in bed beside him first thing in the morning, Andy elbowing his way into their quiet evenings, reminding Nick of everything else he misses about the city. Brandon sprawled naked on soft sheets, panting out Nick’s name, his head tilted back in invitation...  
  
It would be so good, and Nick just _can’t_ , shouldn’t even let himself picture it.  
  
“I can’t,” he says eventually, hopes Brandon can hear how much he wants to anyway. “I mean, I’m not playing, yeah, but I have to be in the press box, I think they want to do some PR stuff too, and we’re not— People would ask questions.”  
  
Nick doesn’t say that he’s not exactly sure he wants to answer those questions yet; he’s not sure whether Brandon would think it was worse if he didn’t or if he _did_. It had seemed so easy to be open in front of their friends when the Hawks had been in town, to make it obvious for people they trusted not to gossip.  
  
Nick knows Brandon’s told a couple of his close friends, too; that would’ve been clear when he copped a knowing look and a few pointed comments from Trocheck when they’d been in Miami a couple days ago, if nothing else. It had been quiet enough that no one else picked up on it, Nick doesn’t think, but he’d felt himself go a little redder than the length of his shift called for, and it had felt really good to score with Trocheck in the box, that’s for sure.  
  
“Right, you’re right,” Brandon says, like he’s trying to persuade _Nick_ that it’s okay, but the pause after he says that drags on a little too much, and he’s the quietest Nick thinks he’s ever heard him when he says, “No point coming on the road if you’re not playing, I guess.”  
  
Nick opens his mouth to ask Brandon what he’s talking about, and then it hits him; he hadn’t even forgotten, exactly, more like he’s been trying not to think about it too much, didn’t want to look past the games they had in between if he was too busy thinking about being back. His first game back in Chicago.  
  
“Oh, you meant,” Nick starts to say, feeling extraordinarily stupid. Of course Brandon meant was he still coming to Chicago. Nick needs to be less fucking self-absorbed, even if it’s hard to focus on much of anything right now.  “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll be back by then,” and that hurts, too, more than it should. He knows how hard up against the cap the Hawks were, but it still burns a little, no matter how much he knows he’s better off where he is now. He wanted to see people, and he—can’t hurt to admit it, since it’s not going to happen now, can it?—he’d really, really wanted to play well there. Fuck, this timing could not be any worse.  
  
Maybe he can ask, if he’s skating by then, but he’d rather find out for sure before he tells Brandon. He doesn’t want to get either of their hopes up.  
  
“Yeah.” Brandon says with a sigh. “I kinda figured.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Nick says helplessly.  
  
“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Brandon says, and Nick can see him in his mind’s eye almost like he’s right there, the one-shouldered shrug that is Brandon pushing aside something he can’t help; not saying it’s unimportant or that he doesn’t care, just accepting when he can’t change it.    
  
Nick wishes he’d picked up his computer and tried Skype rather than just calling, he wants to _see_ Brandon.  
  
He’d wanted to talk to Brandon about that weird conversation with Hammer in the locker room, but now really doesn’t feel like the right time for that. Nick’s stupid injury has already taken up the whole conversation and he’d rather get his mind off that.  
  
“You got anything else planned today?” Nick asks, swinging his feet up onto the couch and stretching out. If he shifts a little he can rest his head on the armrest and jam the phone between his ear and the back of the couch. Low-tech hands-free, way to go. Although his ear is already starting to get kind of sweaty. Whatever, it’ll do.  
  
“Mmm, not really,” Brandon says. “I need groceries, that’s about it. No rush.”  
  
“Want a distraction first?” Nick offers. He’s not too sure about whether he’s up for phone sex; his dick stirs at the thought and he’d definitely _like_ to be, but if he can’t get there it’s not the end of the world. He can still get Brandon off at least. That counts for something.  
  
“What kind of distrac—oh,” Brandon says, getting it. “Really? I thought you weren’t in the mood.”  
  
“That was last night,” Nick says dismissively. His wrist doesn’t feel a whole lot better now than it had then, but at least he’s not so tired, and if he’s starting to feel hungry after all it’s mostly only because he didn’t stop for lunch yet, not the yawing need that gnaws at the back of his throat and makes his jaw ache; he really doesn’t have cravings too bad most of the time at all.  
  
It’d be a different story if Brandon was actually there, curled up on the couch with him, but if that was the case then they’d have a whole lot fewer problems in general.  
  
“Oh, and today’s a brand new day?” Brandon says, a little skeptically. He’s willing to be persuaded, though, and Nick’s quite happy to do the heavy lifting there.  
  
“Mmm,” Nick agrees, shifting so that his good hand is free, careful to keep the sore wrist as still as he can, hand resting lightly over his ribs. He’d turned down the sling they offered him, didn’t think he needed it, but it does mean he has to be more careful how he moves. He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly, searching for the right words. “You wanna do this the traditional way?”  
  
Brandon laughs, but it’s high and a little breathless, like he’s getting turned on already just thinking about doing this, before Nick can even say anything. That’s hot in and of itself. “What’s the traditional way? Or should I ask what the non-traditional way is?”  
  
“Well I could ask what you’re wearing,” Nick says, stretching out into the role. He’s done this before; he’s done this _with Brandon_ before, the only thing that’s different now is that he can’t touch himself the same as usual. “Or I could tell you what to wear.”  
  
“Dangerous,” Brandon says, which isn’t exactly a ‘no’. “But, fuck, why not. I mean, you’re not going to tell me to do anything dumb, so. Sure. What should I be wearing, Leds?”  
  
Nick’s breath catches in his throat. He hadn’t quite expected that Brandon would go for that after all. Brandon’s usually the one who pushes, the one who makes the first move; he’s the one who tells Nick what he wants, even if they figure out how to get there together. It’s not that Nick’s passive, not in the slightest, but he’s felt safer letting Brandon take the lead. He’s not sure what it says now that Brandon’s handing him that control back.  
  
Or maybe Brandon just wants to get off, a quickie in the early afternoon, and this is the easiest way to get there. Nick wants to make it good for him, either way.  
  
“Okay,” Nick says, thumb of his good hand pushing under the waistband of his sweats, stretching out the elastic just a little. It feels good to touch himself even that much, firm against the skin under his belly button, fingertips dragging over the thicker arrow of hair going from there down to his groin. “You should—wait, where are you?”  
  
“My room,” Brandon says instantly, not missing a beat. “Sitting on the bed, looking out the window.”  
  
“Right,” Nick says, letting his eyes close, bringing up the picture in his head. He’s spent a lot of time in that room now, knows exactly the view Brandon’s looking at, with—with the curtains open still. If he was there, he’d be able to see everything; the light floods into Brandon’s room in the morning, he’d picked it for that reason, it helps him get up on time. “Leave the curtains open, yeah?”  
  
“Okay,” Brandon says, and his voice is still mostly even, but Nick can tell he’s starting to get worked up. “Then what?”  
  
“I think now I’m supposed to ask what you’re wearing,” Nick says.  
  
“Thought you were going to tell me,” Brandon says. “Just pajama pants, by the way.”  
  
Nick bites his lip, has to slide his hand all the way inside his sweats then, has to get some pressure on his dick, because he’s pretty sure he knows exactly which pajamas Brandon’s wearing, too. They’re flannel, an understated brown and green plaid, and they’re so old and worn in that they’ve gone thin as summer cotton, stretched out over the curve of Brandon’s ass and thighs for years, because apparently he’s been this solidly built pretty much since high school, hasn’t bulked out all that much more. Didn’t need to. Nick’s torn between envy on the part of his younger self and overwhelming smugness, because he gets to have Brandon—talented, thoughtful, ridiculously hot and even better in bed Brandon—in every way that counts.  
  
Nick updates his mental image and goes hot all over as he also remembers that those pants are so fucking thin that even if he hadn’t already been sleeping with Brandon he’d have been able to take one look and know that he dresses to the left, that he’s cut. Jesus.  
  
“You should take them off,” he says, voice thick, slurring just a little as his teeth press into his lower lip. At some point maybe this will seem ordinary, run of the mill, but it hasn’t happened yet, and Nick can’t imagine not getting this wound up every time. He doesn’t need to bite Brandon every time they fuck, but when it’s been this long since they got to touch each other, when it’s been almost as long since Nick had anything with more hemoglobin than an incredibly rare steak… well. Every part of Nick’s body is up for this, he thinks, and has to bite back a juvenile snicker.  
  
There’s silence, and then a noise that Nick belatedly identifies as the mattress creaking, Brandon sitting back down.  
   
“I really wish you were here,” Brandon says, and Nick sighs.  
  
“Yeah, me too,” he says. “Not just for that reason.”  
  
“So you’re saying I’m not just another pretty, uh, neck,” Brandon tries to joke, but considering they both remember exactly where Nick had bitten him last, that doesn’t quite work, and both of them end up snickering in the most juvenile way possible.  
  
Nick’s still turned on enough that he’s not quite comfortable just lying there, gets his hand moving on his dick, just enough to take the edge off. Even one-handed—with the wrong hand—that feels good enough that he doesn’t even bother to hold back the quiet groan, and Brandon reacts to that like he’s hard-wired, echoes it back.  
  
“We’ve gotta stop trying to have, uh, serious conversations like this,” Nick manages to get out, drags his knuckles along the length of his dick, shuddering and trying not to let his hips move enough that it jostles his other wrist.  
  
“You’re not wrong,” Brandon says, with a shivery laugh, and then his voice goes lower, makes Nick go tense all over, because that tone usually means really good things for him. “Gonna tell me what you’re wearing? It’s only fair.”  
  
“Just sweats,” Nick manages to say, and then he gives in, wraps his fingers around his dick, lets his thumb catch at the head, wet and easy.  
  
Nick imagines that it’s Brandon’s hands on him, and that’s one thing that is easier to do with his off hand, it definitely doesn’t feel exactly the same as jerking off usually does. He tries to keep his hand slow, his grip loose, touching himself the same way Brandon does. It makes heat pool at the base of his spine, makes his fingers twitch and his dick jerk in anticipation.  
  
“Oh, uh, and a T-shirt, too, it’s too annoying to change if I don’t have to,” he adds, since Brandon apparently wants to hear him talk, too.  
   
It’s not like either of them has anything to look at if they’re just doing this over the phone, although if Nick opens his eyes and cranes his neck just a little he can see the back of his hand moving under the fabric of his sweats, could watch himself if he bothered to sit up enough to shove his sweats down to his knees. He considers that for a second, but nah; he doesn’t want to have to move that much, and if he keeps his eyes closed he can imagine they’re in bed, that Brandon’s crawling under the covers to get a hand and his mouth on him. For a split-second Nick can almost feel the warmth of another body on top of his, the softness of Brandon’s hair under his hands as he guides him down. He’s breathless as he lets that thought spill out in the first words he can find to describe it, and it’s gratifying as hell to hear the way Brandon groans in response, too.  
  
Brandon’s breathing fast and loud into the phone by the time Nick finishes talking, and for a second he’s not sure that he’s even going to be able to add much more himself; if Nick’s any judge Brandon’s pretty close already. Nick wants to know what he’s doing though, needs more than just the quiet sounds he’s making. He could probably guess, but it’s more fun if Brandon tells him.  
  
“Saader, c’mon,” Nick breathes, just the slightest hint of a whine in his voice. “Are you—is this doing it for you?”  
  
“Yeah,” Brandon says, sounding like it’s hard to put the words together. Nick wants to feel the way his ribs move as he pants, wants to lie on top of him and grind down, feel Brandon buck up into him. “I guess I should’ve waited,” and when Nick makes an encouraging noise he clarifies. “You didn’t tell me to do anything, but I wanted, fuck, Leds, I miss your hands.”  
  
“You sound good,” Nick tells him, perfectly honest; Brandon sounds wrecked and amazing and Nick’s teeth are digging into his lip hard now, enough that he tastes his own blood before he gets himself under slightly better control.  
  
Brandon sounds good but he must look better, naked on the soft sheets in his room, hand moving on his dick, getting himself off. Nick’s watched him jerk off a couple times, but he’s never made it more than a minute or so after Brandon comes before he’s had to crawl on top of him, kiss him hard, run his fingertips along the length of his dick, enjoying the way he arches up, incoherent and needy. Nick’s too oversensitive right after he gets off to enjoy being touched then, but Brandon seems to like it, leaning into the sensation, and when he kisses Nick then there’s always an edge to it.  
  
He’d reached out to touch after, early on, stopping himself at the last minute, and Brandon just looked up at him and said, “Yeah, do it,” and when Nick had hesitated, he’d added, “Please.”  
  
Brandon had shuddered hard when Nick got a hand on him again, biting his own lip hard enough to draw blood, and when Nick had leaned in automatically to lick the tiny cut closed Brandon had just bitten his lip instead. If Nick hadn’t already gotten off right before that it would probably have been enough to do it then.  
  
He’d kept it in mind the next time they were in bed, too, raised an eyebrow at Brandon—sprawled out blissfully on his back, hands still in Nick’s hair where they’d been as he sucked him off—and run his finger lightly along his softening dick, said, “Hey, you wanna?” and Brandon had groaned and pulled Nick’s hair and said, “Yes, fuck.” It wasn’t something they did every time, but it was a regular enough part of their sex life by the time the season was about to start again, that was for sure.  
  
“Fuck,” Brandon whines, bringing Nick’s attention back to the present. “Nick, I’m gonna, I need to get off.”  
  
Nick tightens his grip on his own dick at that, allows himself to speed up at last. “Yeah, do it. Let me hear you, please, Saader.”  
  
Brandon’s loud as he comes, almost completely uninhibited, such a contrast to how quiet he is the rest of the time it that gets right under Nick’s skin, makes him smug and even hotter to know that Brandon’s like that with him, _for_ him.  
  
Nick’s shoulder is starting to feel stiff from how tightly he’s holding it, keeping his phone jammed up against his ear, and he knows he’s sweaty and about to get even grosser. There’s no way he can get out of showering before he has to go sit up in the press box now, but he doesn’t want to miss anything.  There’s a break between when Brandon’s swearing tails off and when he clearly picks up his phone again properly, breathing starting to slow back to normal, and Nick just keeps touching himself, knows he’s right on the edge himself now. Hearing Brandon lose it has him teetering, it’s not going to take much after that, he just—well, he wants to wait to make sure Brandon can hear it, too.  
  
“How are you doing there, Leds?” Brandon asks, and Nick screws his eyes closed again, wishes it was Brandon’s warmth along his side rather than the reflected heat off soft cushions and the plastic of his phone.  
  
“Pretty close,” Nick pants. He wishes he had his other hand free and in working order, because that would help; he could get a hand on his balls, or run his fingers along the crease of his thigh, scratch his nails around his nipples or even finger himself, but right now all he can do is flatten his palm—carefully—over his stomach, trying not to move his wrist, holding himself back so that his hips don’t move too much either, even though all he wants to do is thrust into his hand.  
  
“Feeling good?” Brandon asks, and maybe that would be dirty talk normally, but there’s an edge of concern in Brandon’s voice that makes it obvious to Nick that it’s a real question, that he’s worried Nick’s in pain still. Nick’s turned on enough now that it’s pretty much all he’s conscious of feeling. Sure, if he jolted his wrist, or did something major then he’d feel that, but he’s being careful, and mostly he just needs to get off, wants the flood of endorphins, the sheer relief of it.  
  
“Yeah,” Nick says, and tightens his grip more, drags his thumbnail lightly over the vein. That’s something that’s kind of hard to judge on someone else, but he knows he likes it, can adjust automatically, and fuck, it feels so good. “Not as good as you, but, fuck, better than nothing,” Nick admits, and that’s true, too; he’d rather it was Brandon’s hands on him, wants that any time he can get it, but working himself up is an acceptable alternative.  
  
Especially with Brandon’s voice in his ears, Brandon encouraging him, telling him to stroke faster, to rub his palm over the head of his dick, getting it good and wet. Especially when Brandon’s voice gets lower, like he’s worried about being overheard even alone in his own apartment, now that he’s not distracted by his own impending orgasm. Most especially when Brandon tells him to stop touching himself for a minute, to bite at his own knuckles and make himself wait just a couple of seconds longer.  
  
Nick does what Brandon asks, doesn’t see any reason _not_ to, and it’s so fucking worth it for how hard he comes when Brandon tells him to do whatever he needs, breathing too fast down the phone line while Nick shivers and moans and tries not to let his hips move like he wants to.  
  
He feels wrecked after that; the fact he’d just pulled on the nearest comfortable clothes first thing that morning rather than anything nicer is even more of a problem now that he’s filthy on top of unshowered. He’s going to have to stop talking to Brandon pretty damn soon if he’s going to have enough time to get himself together before his ride to Nassau turns up, and the degree to which he just wants to drag his heels and keep ignoring that fact is… larger than it should be. He’s being unprofessional, he tells himself, but even that doesn’t work to goad him like it usually would. Nick’s been having a tough week, and he just wants to wallow for a little longer, feel sorry for himself and indulge in doing what still feels good.  
  
“You sound better,” Brandon tells him, and Nick smiles back automatically, even though Brandon obviously can’t see it.  
  
“Feels better, too,” Nick says. “I mean, thank god I do my own laundry—” Brandon laughs with him, warm and appreciative, “—because I’m a fucking mess, but thanks, Saader. That was really, I mean. I kinda needed that.”  
  
“Any time,” Brandon tells him, trying to sound solemn, but Nick can tell he wants to laugh. “Or, okay, no, there’s some times this really wouldn’t work, but, you know. Any other time.”  
  
“Still rooming with the rookies on the road, huh?” Nick asks, and he’s pleased to have been able to put that together so fast. His brain’s working at normal speed again at least, which isn’t always a given; sometimes getting off makes him feel slower afterward, almost too relaxed, but this is better, because instead he feels alert and cheerful, almost humming with it.  
  
“Yeah,” Brandon says. “I mean, we can’t all be making 5.5 million, I guess.”  
  
“You will, though,” Nick says, because Brandon’s good, and he’s going to be up there as soon as he re-signs, Nick has no doubt.  
  
Brandon makes a ‘not-the-point’ noise, a low but good-natured grumble, and Nick lets him change the subject like he clearly wants to.  
  
“I should go,” Brandon says eventually, when it’s clear neither of them has much of anything further to add. “I’ll see you later some time, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Nick says, and he should definitely talk to the guys in the front office about that tonight; maybe he can imply something about how much better he’ll be if he can go to Chicago after all. He doesn’t have to say _why_. Because if he can see Brandon, he knows exactly where they’re going to wind up, and even if Nick’s talked a good game about not biting Brandon in the middle of the season, well.  
  
If Brandon’s offering, Nick doesn’t really want to say no.  
  
* * *  
  
Nick drags himself into the shower and cleans up, takes a moment to be grateful he doesn’t have to try and shave at least. He only catches his wrist a couple times, and if the bathroom tiles are the only witnesses to more cursing than he’s indulged in for a while, well, it could be worse. Getting the button-down shirt on is by far and away the worst part, and he’s gritting his teeth—flat and perfectly human again by then—by the time he has all the buttons done up, the cuffs pulled down over his wrists. He’s got a brace on the bad wrist, which both helps keep it more stable and gives him velcro to get his shirtsleeves caught on. He considers cuff-links for a hot second but comes down on the side of ‘fuck it’; he can just leave his jacket on and no one will really notice.  
  
By the time he’s shrugging a jacket on over top it’s a fifty-fifty split on whether the brace was a good idea or not, but he’s committed this far at least. He’s absolutely not bothering with a tie, though. Not without someone there to give him a hand with it, and since—unlike certain teammates he could mention—he’s never been in the habit of leaving one tied and just loosening it, he can’t even cheat. He’s pretty sure he can play the “I live alone” card if anyone gives him grief for it, although he does go back into his room right before heading downstairs to meet the car to pick up a tie and stuffs it into his pocket just in case. If he has to get a hand from one of the guys they’ll probably chirp him until the end of time, but if he can find one of the trainers first they’ll probably have mercy on him.  
  
Watching the game from the press box is exactly as frustrating as Nick remembers; it’s been a while since he was in this position, and even longer since it was due to injury. Maybe the head injury with the IceHogs, he’s pretty sure that was the last time. That had been even more of a shock to this system than this; the first time he’d gotten hurt and not been able to heal up faster even when he’d been expecting to. It had been an unwelcome reminder that he wasn’t exactly bulletproof either, although it hadn’t slowed him down for long.  
  
It could’ve been worse, he’d figured at the time; at least he’d had Saader for company, the first time they’d hung out by themselves a lot, without the other guys around. Nick had liked him from the start, sure, but that time in Rockford at the beginning of the lockout year… that was when he’d really got to know Brandon. It probably would’ve happened if they’d both stayed healthy too, sure, but the minuscule silver lining of getting hurt back then had been the way they’d bonded faster. He’s not sure he’s going to be able to find any silver lining at all this time.  
  
The game seems to move so much slower from that high up, and Nick finds the fact he can see the play unfolding and do absolutely nothing about it almost as frustrating as the fact the guys on the ice can’t seem to either. He finds himself leaning forward, silently urging his teammates to skate faster, pass cleaner, willing the puck past Talbot.  
  
Lee gets them on the board early, a nice shot of adrenaline to get things going, and Nick exchanges high fives with Grabs and Mac, tries not to cheer too obnoxiously. The building is as loud as he’s heard it, the competing chants from both fan bases fighting it out while the game stays close. The Rangers tie it up halfway through the second and the cheering reaches a fever pitch, both teams desperate to find an edge to come out on top. The Isles throw a lot of pucks at Talbot but they’re not getting any of them past him. Nick knows there’s no point to imagining how much better they’d do with him out there; it’s entirely academic because he can’t and they all know it. He still feels a little like he’s letting them down, especially when Nash beats Halak cleanly early in the third, giving the Rangers a lead that the Isles just can’t seem to pull back.  
  
The room is subdued when Nick heads down after they’re done upstairs; losing sucks, and losing to the Rangers sucks even more. He makes his way around, doling out sympathetic shoulder-punches and bitching with the rest of them about how Talbot’s a fucking brick wall, how’d he stop that one, or the other one. It’s the same things they’d say any time, but Nick hates that his view of this loss came from up in the box, where he can see everything and affect precisely jack and shit. It’s incredibly frustrating, especially when they’ve had the Rangers’ number for the better part of this season.  
  
There’s another two days before their next game, and Nick spends most of that time doing what workouts he’s still able to do in the mornings, and then staring into his fridge with helpless dissatisfaction and catching up on far too much TV in the afternoon. He likes his apartment well enough, but when there’s not much else to do—and he can’t play video games, either, since he needs both hands for that, too—it gets boring fast.  
  
He goes through some of the frozen meals stacked up in his freezer, because he can’t really cook either, and he should really order more than just one or two of his favorites next time. As much as he likes the salmon, after the third or fourth meal in a row it’s also getting a little old. He shouldn’t feel like he’s getting cabin fever after a whole two days, but Nick figures the fact he’s so out of practice with dealing with this whole injury stuff has to be contributing to that, too.  
  
Brandon’s busy with his own stuff, and Tyler’s busy with college, and most of Nick’s friends in New York are, well, other Islanders, which means they’ve got practice and workouts and napping to do and not a whole lot of free time either. Plus, every time he’s around the team Hammer’s giving him weird looks, and Nick’s not exactly in any hurry to see what’s behind that. He texts some of his friends from back home a bit more, leans on the Reillys for some company next time they’re around, and makes a lot of promises about how much they’ll all hang out at the lake this summer. He does kind of have to make up for pretty much ditching everyone last summer, not that he wouldn’t do it again in a heartbeat.  
  
Realistically, Nick’s pretty sure what’ll actually happen is he’ll just get Brandon to tag along. He gets along with everyone anyway, it’s one of the things Nick’s always liked about him. Everyone likes Brandon, and Brandon seems to like most people just fine. It’s very low-stress, and Nick’s always down with that. He can’t imagine that any of the guys would have a problem with him inviting another friend along, especially not one who’ll fit in with the rest of them so well.  
  
Although what Nick’s starting to think more and more is that he doesn’t want to even suggest Brandon’s just his friend, if they do that. His parents know, Bjugs and Kyle know; it’s kind of stupid that his closest other friends back home don’t. Age and experience are pretty great for a lot of reasons, not least the fact that by now, Nick’s pretty certain that most of his friends are just going to react by telling him Brandon’s too good for him, or chirping him hard about his taste in dudes, or more likely both. Nick’s fine with all of that. Especially if it means he gets a weekend out at the lake with his boys and his boyfriend; and from there it’s just another easy step to imagining all the things he and Brandon can do with some privacy and the better part of a lake to themselves. Not that the others won’t know exactly what he’s thinking if he suggests they go for a hike by themselves.  
  
He texts Bjugs a lot as well; he’s basically resting up every minute he’s not on the ice for the Panthers, and it’s not like he can’t sympathize. Nick actually feels like a massive dick by the time he gets Bjugs to spill exactly what’s going on with him, because sure, he can’t really use one arm at the moment and it’s a little harder to sleep and not playing sucks, but at least he’s going to be just fine in a week or two—maybe sooner—and hasn’t been dealing with this shit nearly as long.  
  
“At least you can still jerk off, though,” Nick grouses, conveniently ignoring the fact he’s gotten off a couple times at least, even if it’s not as satisfying as usual.  
  
Bjugs gives a bark of laughter at that and then tells him to go fuck himself in quite a lot of detail, winding up with, “Seriously, try doing anything without moving a muscle in your back,” and okay, sure, Nick maybe didn’t think that argument through all the way, whoops. At least he’d gotten Bjugs to laugh, though.  
  
They don’t talk about it in so many words, but it can’t be easy for him or Kyle to be as far apart as they are, especially right now. Nick figures that eventually—when they’re both healthy and everything’s back to normal—that’s going to be something they can commiserate over, but he’s also pretty convinced that Kyle’s going to be up with the Panthers sooner rather than later, too, which is going to make Bjugs’ life a whole lot easier. Nick’s pretty jealous, really; he didn’t get nearly enough time to appreciate being on the same team and the same schedule and in the same fucking city as Brandon.  
  
Though it could be worse, he figures. At least it’s not like Stan’s gonna trade Saader to the Rangers or anything like that.  
  
* * *  
  
He has Marty and Cal over to hang out for a while the night before they play the Sens; at least the home stand means he has company while he’s sitting around the house unable to play or do anything useful. That’s a good evening, and he feels better the next morning, too; more cheerful after a good workout and some time with the rest of the guys before they go through video review. He’s spoken to the front office and been told that sure, he can go to Chicago with the team if he wants to, and that’s a weight off his mind, he can’t wait to tell Brandon. He didn’t even need to hint around about anything, figures they’d been happy enough to let him go just because. They’ll probably be pleasantly surprised when he gets a lot better faster after that, but Nick doesn’t get the impression anyone’s going to ask too many questions.  
  
Hammer suggests getting lunch after that, and Nick’s in a good enough mood to agree without really needing to think it over. A couple of the other guys decide to join them before heading home for their naps, and they walk back out to the car park arguing cheerfully over who needs to get a ride with who, and which sucker gets to just leave his car at the Coli until that evening. Stromer comes off the worst in that one, but he also claims shotgun before Nick or anyone else even thinks to do so, which leaves Nick stuck in the back seat of Boych’s car with Hammer.  
  
“Are we fourteen again and I didn’t notice?” Nick grumbles good-naturedly, and Hammer just laughs and says, “Apparently.”  
  
“You’re not that tall,” Stromer says, attempting to be crushing.  
  
Nick just kicks the back of his seat and grumbles, “You’re basically the same height,” but the legroom isn’t actually that bad, so he doesn’t push it. Besides, arguing about roster stats is just a short step away from endless dick jokes, because he knows how this goes.  
  
It seems like everyone’s in a good mood at lunch; they’d had a good skate and they’re looking forward to the game, feeling good, talking a little too loudly as they work through their usual pre-game meal. Nick gets a couple sides that he wouldn’t usually, on a game day; he’s hungry, and it’s not like he has to worry about overdoing it since he isn’t actually fueling up before a game like the rest of them, and he takes the chirping he gets for it with good grace. He dishes some of it back, too, because telling Stromer and Brock that they’re just jealous is not exactly a challenging one to come up with.  
  
Nick finds himself tapping his fingers beside the plate when he’s done; he’s not actually still hungry, but he’s definitely feeling it more now: years of training his body to expect the dehydrated blood supplements around the same time as his pregame meals means that he’s more acutely aware of the lack then than he is at other times. It’s bearable, but it still pretty much sucks. Ordering his steaks rare does not help as much as he might’ve imagined.  
  
“You’re twitchy,” JT says, raising an eyebrow. Nick just shrugs.  
  
“I hate having to watch,” he says; it’s true enough by itself.  
  
“Jeez,” Hammer says, leaning over to grab the water jug from where it had landed in front of Nick. “You look like you haven’t got any in days, Leddy, just go pick someone up already.”  
  
“Um,” Nick says, looking around to check the waitstaff didn’t overhear, because—seriously, Hamonic, what the hell.  
  
Hamonic just raises an eyebrow at him, like _Nick’s_ the one being weird about all of this. “I said I could give you some addresses, right?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Nick says, his face feeling like it’s on fire, and in no way due to the amount of sriracha he’d dumped on his main. He desperately hopes JT and the other guys aren’t listening to their end of the table. “Like I said, that’s not really an option.”  
  
“Right, right,” Hamonic says, with a ‘your loss’ shrug. “Your long-distance thing, I remember. But, like, it’s cute you’re being all romantic and everything, but you gotta get something, Leds. Like, if you don’t wanna pick up a stranger just find someone you know who’s cool with getting bitten.” Hammer leans back in his chair and stretches, and Nick doesn’t mean to but he definitely finds his gaze dropping to his neck while Travis rolls his shoulders and tilts his head back. Nick is really, really looking forward to getting back to Chicago.  
  
He knows he’s been caught looking when Hammer straightens up again and gives him a sympathetic grimace, before shrugging one shoulder and adding, “You know, Johnny or Hickey are usually up for it, if you’re stuck.”  
  
That was not remotely what Nick was expecting him to say.  
  
He doesn’t know what his face is doing at that, can’t help but imagine it—Travis biting down on JT’s wrist, or maybe his neck, and then—Nick doesn’t want to imagine any of his teammates banging, he doesn’t need to know this stuff. How is Hammer so damn casual about all of this? Nick’s had some TMI conversations in public in his time, sure, but not with like a third of his team sitting right there listening like it’s a free show. Although none of them seem to be reacting, so maybe they’re not as up to the play on vampire stuff as Nick had thought.  
  
His face is clearly doing _something_ though, because Hamonic’s brows have drawn together in a frown and he’s giving Nick a hard look that’s a lot more adult than the cheerful grin he’s usually sporting; this is Travis being absolutely serious and looking like he’s about ready to pick a fight if he has to. Fuck, what has Nick gotten himself into?  
  
“Hey,” Hamonic says, more sharply than Nick thinks he’s ever heard him. “Don’t—there’s nothing wrong with that, okay?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Nick says, confused. It’s not like he can really throw stones here.  
  
Hammer looks a little sheepish after that, as if he’s realizing he maybe overreacted a bit, and shrugs again before repeating. “Like, a wrist’s a wrist. And, uh. Not that there would be anything wrong with it if it did mean anything.”  
  
It’s awkward, but Nick at least appreciates what he’s getting at there. Good intentions, and all that. Although he’s not sure why Hammer’s backpedaling on that since he’s pretty much said—or, wait, did he?  
  
“Wait a minute,” Nick says, “You— Do you just bite them?”  
  
“Um, yeah,” Hamonic says, and this time he’s giving Nick the ‘what the hell is wrong with you?’ look.  
  
“You don’t, I mean, it’s just biting?” Nick asks, feeling incredibly stupid.  
  
“What else would it be?” Hamonic sounds as confused as Nick feels.  
  
“…sex?” Nick suggests helplessly, because he can’t actually think of a better euphemism fast enough.  
  
“Oh my god,” Hamonic says, his eyes comically wide, and Nick cringes when he sets his glass back down on the table a little harder than intended, the thunk ringing louder in his ears.  
  
“Oh god,” Nick breathes—hyperventilates might be more accurate—because this got out of hand fast, and given the look on Hammer’s face right now—  
  
“Nick,” Hamonic starts to say, and Nick feels his shoulders tensing up, because if they’re going to first names instead of nicknames then this is getting way more sincere than he really wants to deal with at lunch with his teammates.  
  
“Can we talk about this later?” Nick mumbles, barely able to make eye-contact.  
  
There’s a too-long pause and then Hamonic says, “Okay,” dubiously, like he’s doing Nick a favor and isn’t entirely sure that he should. Fuck, what has Nick gotten himself into now?  
  
* * *  
  
They finish up at lunch without Nick putting his foot in his mouth or saying anything he wishes he hadn’t, and Hammer is just quiet, although not so much that anyone else seems to notice. They divvy themselves up into the groups they’ve settled into by this point in the season outside in the car park, which means Boych winds up with Matty, Hammer and Nick standing around his SUV with their hands stuffed in their pockets waiting for him to unlock the doors already.  
  
“So am I driving all three of you losers home, or what?” he asks, as they pull open the doors and climb in, shaking salt and slush off their shoes and over his car mats.  
  
They’re close enough that it’s not all that much out of his way, but Hammer leans forward between the seats and says, “Hey, can you just drop me and Leds back at the Coli?”  
  
Nick can see Boych’s head move, like he’s looking at them in the mirror instead of the traffic behind them, but he keeps on determinedly staring out the window, doesn’t make eye contact, and so Boych just says, “Sure,” slowly, and takes the turnpike back towards Hempstead and lets it go.  
  
* * *  
  
Travis doesn’t say anything until they pull out onto the expressway, just checks with Nick which exit he needs to take for his apartment, and they’re crawling along in mid-morning traffic in silence for a good two miles before he starts to talk again.  
  
“So correct me if I’m wrong,” Travis says. “You’ve been kind of off lately, even before you got hurt. Have you seriously been going without since you ran out your supply of blood?”  
  
Nick doesn’t think he’s been slower, not really, but then again, maybe Travis is noticing something he wasn’t. He definitely hasn’t felt a hundred percent, but he’d also been telling himself that he was just being self-indulgent. It’s not like he needs the blood, it’s just—nice to have. Really fucking good to have. God, he wishes Brandon was here.  
  
“It’s not going to—” he can’t exactly say ‘hurt me’, because right now that’s blatantly untrue, “—make me sick, or anything like that, I figured I’d just wait it out. I wasn’t exactly planning on fucking up my wrist at the most inconvenient time possible.”  
  
“Yeah,” Travis says slowly. “But if you’re— It’s not good for you to go without this long, the docs will flip their shit about your iron levels if they haven’t already.”  
  
Nick doesn’t think anyone’s tested him for that, but Travis sounds like he knows what he’s talking about, so maybe he should look into that if this drags on much longer. He just makes a non-committal noise and hopes that’ll get him out of the rest of this conversation, staring out the window as they pass under another of the stone bridges that seem to be everywhere on Long Island, another reminder that he’s not in Chicago any more. Travis is apparently not buying that, though, because he taps his fingers on the steering wheel a couple times, and then takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for something.  
  
“So you were saying at lunch,” he starts, and Nick feels his face go hot again, but he can’t actually manage to interrupt him, feeling too acutely awkward to do anything more than slump down in the passenger seat and feel his jaw go tight. That’s probably not great for his teeth, not that Nick’s needed an actual dentist since he was ten or so. There are some definite benefits to this vampire shit.  
  
He’s well aware that he hasn’t actually put a proper sentence together yet, that he’s being kind of rude, but it’s hard to get past that, stuck on being embarrassed and tangled up in the awkwardness of having this conversation with a teammate. Especially one he doesn’t know all that well yet, although he likes Hammer well enough normally, thinks he’s a good guy, decent and funny.  
  
When Nick doesn’t take him up on that obvious invitation Hamonic just sighs and goes back beating up on his steering wheel—offbeat to whatever it is he has on the radio, adding insult to injury, Nick decides—and giving every indication that he’s doing his best to think of another approach. Nick sincerely hopes inspiration does not strike.  
  
After a few minutes of silence Hammer just shrugs at him, and then takes the next exit; they’re close to Nick’s place now, at least, which means eventually this conversation will be over.  
  
Or so he’d thought; instead of just letting him out, Hamonic parks up, locks the car behind him and follows Nick up to his apartment. If he was more than maybe a year older than Nick is he’d almost feel like he was in trouble; this has Serious Authority Figure talk written all over it, and Nick can’t hold back a knee-jerk feeling of resentment. Or maybe that’s just his wrist.  
  
He points Hamonic at his couch, says, “Back in a sec,” and goes straight to his bedroom to dry swallow a couple more of the over the counter painkillers. Maybe that’ll help his mood, too.  
  
Hamonic is looking annoyingly comfortable on his couch when Nick comes back in. He sits at the far end, turns so that he’s facing him, and raises an eyebrow.  
  
“What?” Hammer says, like he’s waiting for Nick to start this conversation. Nick doesn’t even know what he’s missing here, but he’s definitely getting the impression that it’s something pretty big.  
  
“Just say whatever you wanted to say,” Nick says. “You need to get home for your nap, and I’ve got some stuff I need to do, too.”  
  
“Right,” Travis says. “Look. Nick. I don’t—I’m not going to tell you what to do, or anything, but I—are you the only vamp in your family?”  
  
“Pretty much,” Nick says. “It skipped my brother and my mom, and her grandpa died before I was born, so. I did all the safety stuff in high school when we found out though, I’ve never had any problems.”  
  
“Right,” Travis says. “But you haven’t really spent much time around anyone else, well, other than me before, have you?”  
  
“No,” Nick says, wondering what gave that away, and also why it matters. Travis sighs and mutters something under his breath.  
  
“So, uh,” and Travis is finally starting to look just the slightest bit uncomfortable here, too. It’s about time, Nick didn’t want to be the only one squirming. “From what you said, I’m guessing—you were sleeping with everyone you’ve bitten, right?”  
  
Nick’s not sure he can really ask if blowjobs count, and this also doesn’t seem like the time to get fussy about what counts as sex and what doesn’t, even if he was going to. “Kind of?”  
  
“You wanted to, though?” Travis asks, and it’s easy enough for Nick to nod agreement to that. “Right. So you’ve never bitten someone you’re just friends with, or who you don’t know or whatever?”  
  
“No,” Nick says, frowning.  
  
That would be—that would be too weird. He can’t imagine it, really. The idea of sinking his teeth into someone he doesn’t know and isn’t interested in doesn’t appeal at all; no matter how badly he’d like to get some right now, the idea of it being from a friend or, fuck, a teammate... it’s just too strange.  
  
Even leaving aside the whole thing where him and Saader are what they are, it seems like adding fuzzy feelings for a teammate would just make everything worse. Associating that kick of desire, the hot rush of blood in his mouth and the humming desperation to just keep touching and keeping it going with anyone he sees regularly… well, that seems like a recipe for disaster.  
  
“It doesn’t mean anything,” Travis says, gently, and Nick feels himself tense up, wants to say something defensive, but Travis is still talking. “I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything. I mean, hell, I’m not sleeping with Johnny.”  
  
“Oh,” Nick says, feeling bizarrely relieved. It’s not really any of his business even if they had been, but this is a lot to take in when he’s already not feeling great. “But then—?”  
  
“Well, I’m not exactly banging Hickey, either,” Travis says, lips twitching a little like some part of him is finding this funny. Nick just doesn’t get it, at all. “He tastes fine, but he’s really not my type. Seriously, though, it’s—it doesn’t have to be connected to sex. That’s all I’m saying.”  
  
“But don’t you, uh,” and Nick never thought he’d find himself in the position of trying to figure out how to ask a teammate how he manages not to _pop a boner when biting their other teammates_ and this is just one of the weirdest fucking things that has ever happened to Nick, honestly. And that’s not exactly a low bar. “Don’t you want to, though?”  
  
He regrets that question almost the second it’s out of his mouth; he’s not out to these teammates right now, sure, but if he wanted to give someone a perfect opening to say some kind of asshole-ish no homo thing, well, there it is.  
  
Thankfully, Hammer doesn’t go there at all, doesn’t even look like he’s thinking anything along those lines. “Nah,” he says easily. “I just feel better after, that’s all. I don’t know, maybe ask JT some time what he gets out of it? But I don’t think he’s wound up wanting to get in my pants after, either.”  
  
“Huh,” Nick says, stuck for any other comment. “I guess.”  
  
He can’t really imagine asking the captain of his team what it feels like to get bitten, but maybe if desperate times call for desperate measures. _Really_ desperate measures.  
  
“Just think about it,” Hamonic says, and gives Nick a solid punch to the upper arm—the uninjured one, thankfully. “That’s all I’m saying. I mean, maybe it’s different for you. And I guess I’m a little jealous if it’s getting you laid, huh?”  
  
The way he does something vaguely obscene with his eyebrows at that comment is both cheerfully dirty and also somehow almost sweet, Nick thinks. In a weird way it’s exactly what he would’ve expected from Hamonic if he’d ever actually imagined having this conversation with him. He does appreciate the fact that he can make a joke about this, if nothing else. Nick hasn’t exactly been in a position to joke about any of this stuff much, not until Shawzy knew, at least.  
  
Saader’s been good for that, too; his easy acceptance something that Nick hadn’t realized he craved until he had it. Having Brandon do nothing but encourage him had made it easy to get used to biting him, even easier than just sleeping with him. The way they matched up so remarkably well in bed was something that Nick had almost taken for granted, figuring the whole vampire thing just smoothed the way there, made the sex so much better. But if what Hammer was saying was that it _wasn’t_ like that for everyone, then either Nick is even weirder than he sometimes worries, or he’d just got lucky with all the people he’s dated till now. Gotten incredibly lucky with Brandon.  
  
“But yeah, maybe look into that,” Hammer says, and stands up. “So, it’s getting late, I’m gonna head home. Call one of us if you need a ride and don’t want the car service, huh?”  
  
“Yeah, I will,” Nick says absently, still chewing over this new information. “Thanks, Hammer.”  
  
“Hey, we gotta look out for each other, right? Later, Leds.”  
  
Nick locks up behind him and then heads back to the couch, still deep in thought. He should—well, he should maybe look some stuff up, or call some people, actually follow through on some of the contacts he has from high school, since he’d rather talk to them than one of the league assistance programs, just in case. But the first thing he should do, he thinks, catching sight of the time and doing a quick bit of mental arithmetic, is call Brandon.  
  
* * *  
  
The phone almost rings out, and Nick’s bracing to leave a message; just ‘everything’s fine, call me when you can’, because he doesn’t exactly want to spill all of this to Brandon’s voicemail, but ring before it clicks over to the automated message there’s Brandon, breathless like he’s been working hard or had to race to get the phone.  
  
“Leds, hi,” he says, and Nick takes a moment to appreciate hearing his voice, the warmth of it.  
  
“Hey Saader,” he says back, and can’t help grinning at his phone.  
  
“How’s your wrist?” Brandon asks, and Nick blinks, thrown off, because this isn’t the conversation he was poised to have.  
  
It’s probably not surprising that that’s Brandon’s first question; despite the fact his wrist has been throbbing on and off all day so far Nick’s somehow managed to almost forget about that part, buried under the sudden onslaught of uncertainties about the rest of his life.  
  
“It’s getting better,” he says carefully, “That’s actually—that’s kind of why I called?”  
  
“Kind of?” Brandon presses, and Nick can tell he’s trying not to sound too hopeful.  
  
“I’m still out,” Nick says, but rushes on, before Brandon gets the wrong idea. “I mean, I can’t play yet, but I’m going to Chicago with the team anyway.”  
  
Brandon lets out a relieved sigh, and that warms Nick the whole way through; not that he hadn’t expected Brandon to be happy about the idea of seeing him, but it’s still nice to hear. “That’s awesome, Nick. You’re getting in the night before, yeah?”  
  
“Early Monday afternoon,” Nick corrects, and lets himself grin more broadly at Brandon’s answering “Oh, really?”  
  
“Mmm,” Nick says, “You wanna do something?”  
  
Brandon laughs, comes back almost automatically with, “Yeah, I think we can manage that.”  
  
“I, uh, told them I’ve still got a place in Chicago and they said I can skip out on the hotel,” Nick says, carefully. It’s not like this is anything new and unusual for them, but he’s maybe pushing his luck here, maybe a little too close to the line.  
  
“You can stay over?” Brandon asks, and just sounds honestly delighted.  
  
Nick relaxes a little; he hadn’t really thought Brandon would have a problem with that, not even the night before a game, and says, “Well, I don’t think Shawzy really wants me cluttering up his guest room.”  
  
“Yeah, might interfere with his beauty sleep, or something,” Brandon agrees, mock-solicitous. “Definitely better if you stay with me. My neighbors won’t complain nearly as much as Shawzy would.”  
  
“Oh yeah?” Nick asks, letting himself slip back into the easy back-and-forth, teasing—flirting, really—content to see how it plays out. He doesn’t have to be anywhere for a while, yet. “Why would the neighbors get a vote, huh?”  
  
Brandon snorts, and then straight up giggles, and Nick sits up a little straighter. “Saader,” he whines, because Brandon’s being more obtuse than usual here.  
  
“You’re kind of loud,” he says after a moment, and Nick flushes hot all over. “Not all the time, but when we really get into it—”  
  
Nick really wants to tease Brandon about the fact he’s using vague euphemisms even when it’s just the two of them, but he’s kind of distracted by remembering the last time they’d slept together in Chicago, tangled up together warm and happy in Brandon’s bed. They hadn’t even made it out of bed for breakfast, caught up in each other, in the exact kind of sloppy, fast, almost too good to be true morning sex that Nick loved, that made him make terrible decisions about how late to stay with any hookup, that had definitely almost made him miss his flight on that occasion.  
  
Even now he can’t regret that, and it’s a good memory, thinking back to Brandon’s mouth on him, the way he was convinced he’d just about left the imprints of his fingernails on the posts of Brandon’s headboard, his hands wrapped so tight around them. He’d had to turn his face into his own shoulder and bite back the noises he’d wanted to make as Brandon touched him them, but apparently he hadn’t managed to do a great job of holding those back after all.  
  
“Yeah, and you’re so quiet,” he points out after a moment, looking for some equilibrium. He’s not just chirping for the sake of it, either; Brandon is pretty shameless, especially when Nick’s doing something he likes, and so far that’s been, well. Everything. It’s super fucking gratifying, really, and Nick never actually has to wonder whether something’s working for Brandon because he’s usually getting virtually instant feedback.  
  
“Mmm, well,” Brandon says, and doesn’t actually finish his sentence. “You guys have a game tonight, yeah?” he asks after a moment, and Nick glances guiltily at the clock on the oven, blinking accusingly at him. Apparently talking to Hammer had taken a little longer than he’d thought, because if he’s getting a nap in before he has to get ready, and even if he’s not skating he still has to get to the Coli early, then he should really go do that.  
  
Arguably, he doesn’t need to nap; it’s not like he’ll be playing, but Nick’s had the same routines for years now, and he’d rather not mess with them if he doesn’t have to.  
  
“Yeah, I should go,” he says after a moment, and he and Brandon go back and forth for another minute or so, just letting the last few words drag out before they actually say goodbye. It’s a little highschool of them, sure, but Nick’s not gonna complain.  
  
It’s not until after he’s hung up and put his phone on the charger, wandering back to his bedroom and kicking off his pants, at least—the shirt can wait till he showers, he’d rather not move his arm more than he has to until then—that he remembers he’d been going to talk to Brandon about what Hammer had said, too.  
  
It can’t be that big a deal if he got that distracted that easily, Nick figures, and stretches out on his bed, pulling the covers up and letting his eyes close. It’s not like he’s not not avoiding anything, or whatever. He can talk to Brandon later. Or when he sees him. At which point this whole thing will probably be moot, anyhow. Problem solved.  
  
Or. His problem, anyway. The larger problem where his team apparently can’t score right now to save themselves might take some additional work.  
  
* * *  
  
That doesn’t get any better that night against the Sens, and Nick can feel the mood in the arena starting to sour, frustration settling in on the bench and among the fans. These games were meant to go very differently than how they have so far, getting them into better playoff position, not watching as the rest of the division piles up wins, and it’s driving Nick nuts not to be out there working to get them points on the board.  
  
It doesn’t get any better the day after when the Habs are in town either, and once again the best they can manage is one goal, with Neuvy pulled onto the bench and a two-man advantage on the powerplay. The Habs pick up the empty netter just to really twist the knife, and that’s three in a row at home lost, their entire homestand, and only one goal in each of the last three. Toronto was their last win, and even then they’d had to go to OT. There’s almost a month till the end of the season, but the playoffs—which had looked so tantalizingly close in February—seem to be pulling away from them faster than they can keep up.  
  
Nick goes down to the locker room after the game, makes his way with the other guys who’d been in the press box, although it’s not like anyone’s particularly in the mood to do much more than exchange a few consolatory fist-bumps, exchange awkward cliches that none of them really buy. They need to be better, that’s what it is. Thirty plus shots is something, but they should have been able to get more than that on Price. It’s not like they haven’t before, even if they haven’t actually managed to beat Montreal this year at all. Fuck, a season sweep is just so irritating when you’re on the wrong side of it, Nick thinks, and scowls briefly to himself. When he looks over, JT’s sitting in his stall, also scowling at nothing in particular, tapping his foot fast and angry.  
  
“Dude, go shower already,” Nick says to him, after considering and discarding a few other comments.  
  
He’d try something a bit more upbeat, but he doesn’t think Johnny’s in the mood to hear it yet. Nick’s sure if he looked at the post game that JT would’ve fronted up for the media, said all the right things, hidden his reaction behind cliches and the bland approach he’s cultivated in front of a camera, but now that it’s just the team around he’s let that drop.  
  
Johnny’s their captain, he’s usually the one talking them back up after a loss like this, but it’s been a tough month, and Nick figures he deserves to hear some of that himself, too. And maybe he can at least help out that way, although he’ll hold it until they’re set to leave the Coliseum. Waiting for JT to shower and get dressed again might give Nick enough time to figure out exactly what to say, too. He hasn’t been in this position as much lately, either; going from the third d-pair in Chicago to being one of the veterans in New York has been an eye-opener in a few different ways.  
  
He’s been in leadership positions before, and he’s been feeling his way back into the role with the Isles, but he’s not entirely comfortable with it yet, especially with a group that—while young—is established and has been together for a while. He’s acutely conscious that he’s still kind of the new guy, however welcoming they’ve been, and it’s not like he’s wearing a letter or anything either. Not that he’d want to, Frans and Kyle both do just fine there. And, Nick thinks, glancing over to where Okposo’s sitting in his stall, already dressed but clearly waiting for Tavares to emerge again, it looks like maybe he won’t have to say anything after all.  
  
They get dinner as a group, same as usual, and by the time they’re done JT’s looking less like someone kicked his puppy, which Nick has to consider an improvement. They’re not going to break out of this slump unless they start scoring again, and no one’s going to do that if they’re over-thinking it too much, Nick’s been around more than long enough to know that.  
  
They’ve got the day after off, and then... Chicago. Nick’s trying not to think about it too much, but he thinks he’s equal parts excited and just the slightest bit worried. It’ll be good to see everyone there, but he’s not sure how things will go when he gets to see Brandon. At least they’ll have plenty of time together, won’t have to worry about curfew the night before the game. Being able to wake up with him—even if he’ll have to head back to the hotel in time for morning skate—is going to be pretty fucking great, Nick thinks.  
  
Nick fits in a casual workout the next morning after letting himself sleep late, appreciating the fact he doesn’t have to be anywhere by a particular time. He does as much of his usual weights circuit as he can, careful with the few one-handed exercises he can do. His wrist has been feeling a lot better, really, enough that he’s tempted to try adding something back into his routine. Apparently, his eyeing the weights as he tosses up the odds of that being a good idea is a dead giveaway, because he gets a dry “Don’t even think about it,” from Derrek, who Nick could swear had been facing the other way helping spot Hammer at the bench.  
  
He’s probably not actually a mind-reader; Nick knows he’s not exactly the world’s most subtle guy, but just in case Nick thinks something slightly rude in his direction but obediently goes to cool down on the bike instead anyway.  
  
By the time he’s done he’s sweating pretty hard, and definitely in need of a shower—and grateful it’s not the cold tub this time. He and a few of the other guys who’d wandered into the gym at the same time get chapter and verse from JT on how great the new seafood place by his house is while they’re changing back into street clothes, and of course that just means that all six of them wind up deciding to hit it up for lunch then and there.  
  
They get shown to a table straight away, settle in to talking easily, last night’s loss shaken off and in the rear view mirror already. It’s incredibly comfortable, more than anything, and Nick is distracted chasing that thought to its ultimate end. He fits in here, now, he’s starting to realize; he’s happy in New York, on this team, with these guys. It’s maybe not where he expected to be, but it’s still good. That, more than anything, just makes him itch all the more to be able to get back on the ice where he can help out, get them going again.  
  
Zeeker and Matty lean on him at that point to help scout out the Hawks; since he’s obviously one hell of a lot more familiar with them than anyone who plays in the East is, even after the better part of a season away now. He can’t offer a lot; the systems haven’t exactly changed much since he was in Chicago, but they’ll cover that in video review more usefully anyway.  
  
Nick points that out and the other two just shrug it off, before Zeeker picks up the candle set out in the middle of the table—unlit, but apparently this is one of those joints that thinks it’s classy or romantic or something, with a candle set out on every table—and pinches his fingers over the wick, lighting it with a snap.  
  
“Do not get us kicked out before we even get appetizers,” Hicks says, with the long-suffering tone of someone who’s seen this movie before.  
  
“No one’ll even notice,” Zeeker argues, keeping his voice low, and he’s keeping the flame small, too, although it’s shading from orange into blue as it heats up in a way that Nick doesn’t think it would actually do without Casey’s help.  
  
“Why do so many of you guys play hockey?” Nick asks, watching as Zeeker molds the flame with careful, deft touches of his fingertips, until there’s a miniature dog flickering on top of the wick, holding the shape for a couple of seconds before it dissolves again.  
  
“Hrm, say what?” Zeeker asks, and lets the candle go out when he turns back to Nick.  
  
“I think there’s been someone who can manipulate fire on, like. Every team I’ve played on,” Nick says. “Like. You play on _ice_.”  
  
“It’s a really common talent,” Matty points out, right over the top of Zeeker’s, “Hey, what can I say, opposites attract?” and that sets them all laughing.  
  
“So, you ready to go back?” Johnny asks him quietly, after their orders have come out from the kitchen and they’re all distracted by starting to dig in, stealing little bits of whatever looks good off any plate in arm’s reach. “It’s gotta be a bit weird. Though, oh, I guess you’d been traded before, right?” Trust Johnny to remember that, even if a prospect going from Minnesota to Chicago wouldn’t exactly have seemed important to someone starting their career knowing they’d be making the Islanders roster right out of training camp.  
  
“I never did actually get called up with the Wild,” Nick points out, “So I guess that made it easier, but… I don’t know. I guess I’ll grab dinner with a few of the guys there, and,” he shrugs, “we’ll see. It’s not home anymore, but it’s still weird sometimes to not be there.”  
  
“Right, you said you still had your place there, huh?” John says. “Must be nice to be able to skip the hotel.”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” Nick says, and orders himself firmly not to go red, or react in any way obviously.  
  
He’s shit out of luck, though, because Hammer clearly overhears that and leans in with a cheerful leer. “Nice to skip the hotel and get laid, huh?” he says, and—honestly, Nick doesn’t know what his fiancee sees in him if he does that eyebrow thing every time he makes a sex joke, and he tells Travis as much with as straight a face as he can manage.  
  
“Get it, Leds,” Matty puts in, along with a ‘go get ‘em tiger’ punch to his upper arm that would’ve maybe made him shift in the chair if he hadn’t seen it coming and braced for it.  
  
“Guys,” Nick complains, but he can’t help a tiny smile all the same. This is the exact same kind of teasing he’d get from any of the guys he’s been tight with over the years on every team he’s played on. It’s familiar, even if it does make him want to squirm in his chair, his face feeling hot and ears burning.  
  
“I’d tell you to save some for the game but I guess at least you don’t need to worry about that this trip,” Hammer says, “Although hey, if you’ve made a miraculous recovery by morning skate who knows, huh?”  
  
“How would he have a miraculous recovery?” JT asks, brow creasing, looking up from his food, and Nick sinks down in his seat a little.  
  
Hammer makes a gesture that not even Nick, who knows what he’s getting at, can actually translate, and then, after a quick glance around the room, which proves that no one else is paying them any attention whatsoever, he turns to face JT directly and shoots him a grin that’s all teeth, very obviously extended.  
  
God, Nick’s hungry. He’s definitely not looking at JT’s neck, where the tendon stands out when he stretches, or the faint shiver to his skin where the pulse in his wrist beats just under the surface when he reaches for the salt. Definitely not looking there at all.  
  
“Oh,” Johnny says, and settles back into his seat like that answers something. He gives Nick a speculative look and says, “So you’re ditching us for, uh, a dinner date, huh?”  
  
“That’s awful,” Nick complains, but he can’t exactly say no.  
  
“What’s that?” Zeeker asks, tuning in to their conversation again.  
  
“Leds is talking about getting… uh, sandwiches in Chicago,” Johnny replies, catching himself right before he can say anything about vampires while their waiter starts clearing plates. He puts enough emphasis on it that Nick’s pretty sure everyone in earshot knows he meant it euphemistically, that’s for sure.  
  
“Just remember to use saran wrap,” Clutter adds drily, without missing a beat, and Nick chokes, has to try and swallow carefully and then take a couple of deep breaths before he can actually speak again. Johnny and Hammer are both laughing fit to burst, too, although at least neither of them had had a mouthful at the time.  
  
“You’re a dick,” Nick tells him, once he’s recovered enough to talk again, eyes watering a little still. “But thanks for the advice, grandpa, I will.” At least it’s not like he can knock Saader up, not that he’s going to make that joke right then. Not when none of them know who Nick’s seeing.  
  
“I can’t believe you’ve gone this long without biting someone,” Hammer says, again, not quite under his breath, and he’s shaking his head.  
  
“It’s not that bad,” Nick protests, although by this point it kind of is. God, tomorrow, he gets to see Brandon tomorrow, and—he needs to stop thinking about that, because his teeth are digging into his lip, even though there’s literally nothing on the table for them any time soon.  
  
He hasn’t been this easily distracted since he was a teenager, for fuck’s sake, it’s embarrassing. Not that that thought helps much considering how he’s kind of turned on again, too, imagining. Fuck, he’s going to go straight to Brandon’s place and just hold him up against the kitchen wall until they’re done kissing, and if Brandon happens to wind up naked before that happens, well. Nick’ll just have to roll with that.  
  
He blinks a few times and then looks up from his plate, tries to let his eyes focus on the drinks menu standing up on the table in front of him like that’s what he’s actually meaning to do, although the words have blurred into nothingness for a good twenty or thirty seconds before he notices Hammer is openly laughing at him.  
  
“Shut up,” Nick says, helplessly, “It’s not my fault if you’re jealous, okay?” and Hammer just laughs more.  
  
“You want some more cold water, or something?” he suggests, around the snickers, holding out the jug the server had left on their table as if he’s really offering, and Nick does his best to level a glare at him, still can’t quite pull it off.  
  
“You really are a little… fang-y,” Zeeker says from the opposite side of the table, narrowing his eyes at him, and Nick closes his mouth so fast his teeth click together, lips pressed tight. He really doesn’t need anyone staring at his teeth, Jesus. Because it’s—awkward. That’s all. Nothing else.  
  
“You are a kinky motherfucker, Leds,” Hammer says, sounding almost admiring, although he’s shaking his head in mock dismay.  
  
“I’m really not,” Nick starts to say, before remembering that trying to argue about that is just going to throw more fuel on the fire, and he’s already going to be getting chirped pretty hard over the next few days as it is, if he’s any judge. “C’mon, it’s not funny.”  
  
“It’s a little funny,” Hammer says.  
  
“It’s not that funny,” Nick tries to argue instead, and Hammer snorts.  
  
That gets Johnny’s attention again, and with the annoying ability he has to get right to the heart of whatever you’re on about, especially when you don’t particularly want him to, he turns to Hammer and asks, “What’s funny?”  
  
Hammer gives him a quick look that Nick has no trouble reading as checking whether this is too far, if it’s an actual boundary, and Nick appreciates the get out of jail free card there. He probably deserves this, though, and gives a tiny shrug back, as if to say, ‘fine, spill it’.  
  
“Leds banging everyone he feeds off,” Hammer says. “He didn’t know you could just, you know. Get takeout. So to speak.”  
  
“Augh,” Nick mutters, sliding a little further down in his seat. “That’s a terrible euphemism too, why do we let you talk? And it was the other way around, kind of.” He’s aware that doesn’t really make him sound any better, but. C’mon. Why would he have expected anything else? Biting people is _hot_ ; frankly he thinks Travis is the weird one, really.  
  
“No, he’s right,” Hickey says from Hammer’s other side, blinking at him consideringly. “That is kind of funny. Is that why you never asked Stromer or Johnny or anyone?”  
  
“Wait,” Nick says, surprised enough to sit up straighter and lean forward, elbows on the table in a way that would make his mom yell at him, and is definitely making his wrist protest a little. He’s not quite as close to better as he’d been hoping, possibly. “Did _everyone_ think I was going to bite someone on the team at some point?”  
  
That’s... unexpected.  
  
“Well, yeah,” Hicks says. “We’re used to Hammer, though, so I guess if your thing is, uh. Like that, I can see why it might get awkward.”  
  
His thing, Jesus. How does Nick keep getting himself into these conversations? Going along with it is all he can do, he figures.  
  
“Yeah, just a bit. I mean, it’s not like I was gonna start sleeping with JT, right?” he tries to joke, hoping this won’t blow up in his face. Fuck his fucking life, seriously.  
  
Johnny just shrugs at him, completely unperturbed, “Yeah, Sam would probably have a problem with that. He’s cool with it just being biting though,” and, like. What.  
  
Nick blinks at him, opens his mouth and realizes he has no clue what the fuck to say to that. Johnny would be cool with Nick biting him, he’s just not down for banging, and _Nick's_ the weird one? He needs to go home right now so he can call Brandon and complain about how his teammates are fucking nuts.  
  
And then he has to put his fork down and take a long drink of water from his glass, because that’s when Johnny’s actual words register. Nick is apparently incredibly slow today as well as kind of dinged up and cranky with it, because Johnny had definitely just—he’d definitely just kinda come out to Nick, super casually and quietly, and given the way no one else was saying anything or looking poker-faced, this was not news to anyone _but_ Nick.  
  
Well, that’s a relief.  
  
“That’s cool,” Nick says after a moment, figuring he needs to say something. God, he’s calling Brandon the second he gets home, forget waiting till tomorrow when he’s gonna get to actually see him. “I respect your boundaries and all that shit.”  
  
“Any time,” Johnny says, “And, for real, I don’t know if Hammer’s just giving you shit, but if you need a quick bite, you really can call me. It’s, uh, relaxing, you know?”  
  
Nick narrows his eyes. Of course Johnny—Mr Over Achiever himself—would find letting someone sink their teeth into him for a couple minutes a _relaxing_ change of pace. Nick’s definitely not the weirdest dude on this team. Which is kind of a nice change, really.  
  
And he’s also feeling a little like he’s been set up here, because that conversation had absolutely gone a lot more smoothly than it maybe should have. If he was putting money on it he might bet that someone—Hammer—had primed Johnny to volunteer how he felt about getting bitten. The bit about Sam, whoever he is, and after a second’s thought Nick has some strong suspicions, had just been a bonus on the side, really. Although it’s interesting to hear that. He really should ask _Brandon_ how it feels for him some time, possibly over the phone so they don’t get distracted and go back to fucking around instead of talking about what they’re doing in bed.  
  
Which just puts him right back where he started in terms of being too distracted thinking about getting laid to actually eat his lunch like a normal person. Nick shakes his head, tells himself to snap out of it and then applies himself to his salmon with a bit more purpose.  
  
* * *  
  
He facetimes Brandon when he gets home, catches him right before his nap. They don’t usually talk this often, the odd text or snapchat or whatever, sure, but this is a lot even for them. Nick might be a little clingier than usual, but he’ll cut himself a break on that, he’s having a rough month. And besides, they need to plan for the day after anyway, they hadn’t actually got that far yesterday. Nick’s starting to think he should write a to do list or something, if he’s going to be this useless at remembering what he’d been planning to say without getting distracted first.  
  
“Hey babe,” Brandon says easily, and Nick grins at his phone, at _Brandon_ , taking in the way his hair’s starting to get too long again, curling at the back of his neck, the easy way he’s smiling at Nick, clearly happy to see him too.  
  
“Figured we should, uh, make plans, and all that,” Nick says. “How’s your day going?”  
  
Brandon hums a little before saying, “Not bad, haven’t really done much,” and then he adds, “What do we need to plan, anyway? Or did you want a ride from the airport…?”  
  
“Nah, I’ll get a cab from the hotel,” Nick says.  
  
“Cool,” Brandon says, “I mean, I was figuring I’d just wait here for you since you’ve got a key and everything.”  
  
That’s true enough; Nick does still have a key, both Brandon’s apartment key and the swipe card to get in the front door of the building. He’s had that since before they were sleeping together, but it probably says something that they’re still on his keyring with the ones for his apartment in Long Island, and the key for Shawzy’s place is on the ‘in case of emergency’ ring stashed at the back of his junk drawer.  
  
“Sounds like a plan,” Nick says, and then takes a deep breath. “Um, so something weird happened this week?”  
  
He’s not sure if that’s the right way to describe it; if he was better about talking about this kind of thing they would have already, probably. Hell, if he was better about talking about this stuff he probably wouldn’t be in this situation. It’s not like Nick regrets spending most of his teenage years focused on hockey to the exclusion of almost everything else; he needed to and it’s paid off, it’s paying off now— but maybe he’d feel a bit less like he was constantly two steps behind the play if he’d actually spent more time dating and, like. Talking to other people like him.  
  
Hammer really is the first vamp he’s spent much time around, but Nick doesn’t think the reverse is true at all. Nick thought he had all of this under control, thought he understood himself just fine, and he’s comfortable—way more than he was at fifteen or eighteen, or even twenty—but finding out he’s maybe been doing this wrong all along has shaken him more than he likes to admit.  
  
“Mmm?” Brandon asks, encouraging him to keep talking, and when Nick takes a couple seconds longer before he can actually put the words together he raises an eyebrow, inquiring.  
  
“I was talking to Hammer, uh, remember I told you he’s a vamp too?” That’s team business, mostly, but Nick thinks it’s the sort of thing that’s okay to share with a significant other, especially since it’s not like Brandon’s going to tell anyone else, or be weird about it. Mostly he’d just teased Nick about whether this meant he had better or worse teeth than most vampires did. Nick had considered being offended for all of a half second, but he’d just reminded Brandon how much he seemed to like his teeth and it wasn’t like Brandon could argue with that, really.  
  
“I remember,” Brandon says, and shoots him a quick grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling as the corner of his mouth quirks up in the slightly lopsided smile Nick’s seen him wearing more often than not, quiet and content.  
  
“We were commiserating about the whole no blood supplements thing,” Brandon nods, and Nick bites his lip, tries not think about biting other things. One more day, that’s all he’s got to wait now. “And he, uh. Was confused I’d gone cold turkey.”  
  
“Um,” Brandon says, eyes widening just a fraction. “So what did you say?”  
  
“Well, I said I was in a relationship so that wasn’t on the table right now, and he. Uh, looked at me like I was nuts.”  
  
He can see Brandon bristling a little at that, his mouth opening in what Nick’s pretty sure would be mild outrage on his behalf.  
  
“Wait, let me finish. Uh, we talked some more and, apparently there’s some stuff, I mean. I might have been doing this all wrong?”  
  
“Nick,” Brandon starts, and then he licks his lips, shifts a little, clearly trying to get his thoughts in order. “What did you—or him, whatever—what’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Apparently when he needs it he just, uh. Bites Tavares.”  
  
Brandon’s eyebrow gets another workout, though this time he doesn’t say anything.  
  
“Like. Uh,” Nick shrugs helplessly, struggling to find words to actually get this across. He’s not doing this right, he should’ve waited till he saw Brandon or maybe just never brought it up at all. “He just bites him, he doesn’t, I mean, they don’t—”  
  
“Hook up?” Brandon suggests, and Nick’s grateful for the out, since apparently he’s having trouble putting a full sentence together to anyone today.  
  
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s not a sex thing. For Hammer, I mean. I guess for Tavares, too. But apparently that’s—it’s weird that it always is, for me.”  
  
Brandon’s eyes narrow, and Nick can’t help but appreciate the way he’s prickly and instantly defensive. It’s maybe unnecessary, but it makes him feel better, that’s for sure. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you, uh. I mean, no complaints here.”  
  
“I was hoping you felt that way,” Nick agrees, giving him a tiny smile back, pretty sure it’s okay now to joke about it a little. “But, yeah. He was surprised I’d never bitten, like, a friend or something.”  
  
“So you and Andy never—?” Brandon asks delicately, and Nick feels his own eyebrows raise this time. “No!”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Brandon says, “I just wondered.”  
  
“I don’t want to sleep with Andy,” Nick grumbles. “He’d never fucking shut up unless you—uh. Could we maybe start this conversation over?”  
  
It’s too late for that, maybe, because now Brandon’s outright laughing at him, which, okay, fine. Nick’s pretty sure he’s unflatteringly red in the face, flushed with lingering embarrassment, especially now that Brandon’s made him imagine hooking up with Shawzy, and don’t get him wrong, Nick loves him, but wow, not like that. They’re good friends, but Nick’s pretty sure they’d murder each other if they were ever more than just friends. And if he’s being painfully honest, Nick knows he’s so far gone on Brandon that he might as well have his name stamped on him somewhere in fancy cursive script. Not that he’s going to share that thought with anyone any time soon.  
  
“But yeah, it was weird,” Nick says, hoping that they can sort of wrap this up. He’d wanted to talk to Brandon about this so that Brandon could make him feel better about it, he realizes belatedly, and he kind of has, although not exactly in the way that he’d expected. Mostly in the way that Nick’s laughing at himself a bit now, too.  
  
“Did you want to try?” Brandon asks curiously, a moment or so later, when they’ve both caught their breath and calmed down a bit more.  
  
“…sleeping with Shawzy?” Nick asks, genuinely lost.  
  
“No, biting someone else. I mean, not hooking up, just—just biting, if that’s the way it goes.”  
  
Brandon’s face is doing something Nick can’t quite read now; he doesn’t think he’s upset, but it’s weird. It’s not a look Nick’s seen him wear often, if at all, the line of his jaw set, his eyebrows too still instead of mobile and expressive like usual.  
  
“I, uh. Maybe?” Nick says, and maybe that was the wrong thing to say. He rushes to add, “I don’t know how that would even work, though. I really have only ever, um. Bitten people in the middle of sex. It sounds pretty bad when I put it that way, huh?”  
  
“Uh, well, like I said, no complaints here,” Brandon says, and the hand he’s holding his phone with moves a little bit more then, the side of his head going in and out of frame as he shifts on the couch, Nick can recognize the pattern of the fabric in the tiny glimpse he can see by Brandon’s shoulder. “I mean. You know. It’s worked out pretty good for me.”  
  
Nick should probably push this a bit more now, especially since he’s almost certain Brandon had been about to say something entirely different, but he recognizes this expression, and this is Brandon turned on and trying to hide it, Brandon squirming because he’s getting hard and wants to touch himself, wants Nick to touch him, and if they’re going to derail into phone sex again, well.  
  
Nick’s kind of okay with that, actually.  
  
* * *  
  
New York to Chicago is one of the shorter flights they’ve taken lately, and it should be a relief, it should be easy, but mostly what it is is frustrating. Nick spends half the time they’re in the air trying not to tap his fingers on the armrest, or kick the back of Grabbo’s seat, and as he’d half-expected, he gets chirped like crazy for the way he can’t seem to sit still or stop his knee jiggling.  
  
Stromer’s sitting across the aisle from him, and makes a production of leaning over Brock’s shoulder to ask, “Hey, did you shower this morning?” and when Brock shoves at him irately and says of course, Stromer just looks at Nick long enough to make sure he’s got his attention before saying, too loudly, “Guess it’s just Leds’ sexual frustration, then.”  
  
“Fuck off, Stromer,” Nick says, as evenly as he can, and he’s got enough self control to not even go red this time, although that’s hard—ha—when Cal and Zeeker turn to look at him as well, considering they do know him well enough to pick when he’s trying to hide something. In this case, how very badly he wants to be off this plane and with Brandon already, and especially not having to listen to teammates who think they’re oh so funny.  
  
Zeeker nearly coughs up a lung by starting to laugh halfway through taking a mouthful of water, and Nick just says, “Serves you right,” although he does pound him on the back helpfully just in case.  
  
“Just make sure you get some sleep,” Clutterbuck says, and maybe Hammer learned that incredibly stupid eyebrow thing from him, because Nick’s getting that again, too, and he puts his head down on his tray table, covering his face with his good arm, and moans, “Why?”  
  
“Aww, Leds,” Hammer says, “We just want you to be happy.”  
  
“You’re all dicks,” Nick says, mumbling into the side of his forearm, but it is kind of sweet. In a really irritating way. Especially since he’ll probably get round two of this teasing at their next morning skate, although the fact he’s going to get to start skating again is at least some comfort there.    
  
At least if he’s biting Brandon then it’s not like he’s going to keep any obvious marks that’ll show in the locker room, even if Brandon tries to leave them, and that’s… a good thing, he thinks. Probably. There’s a part of him that wouldn’t mind Brandon marking him up, but that’ll have to wait for a day that Nick isn’t going to be selfish and desperate, when his wrist isn’t a dull ache for the better part of the day, even when he’s careful with it. He can’t wait to stop thinking about being careful like this.  
  
It seems like they’re on the plane forever before finally circling in over the lake and coming in to land, and Nick can’t quite help himself, staring at the windows at the familiar skyline, the airport buildings he’s seen countless times. It’s all so familiar still, but it’s not his any more, and it’s unsettling in a way that he hadn’t quite expected.  
  
Traffic is as terrible as ever, and Nick has to curb his impatience as their bus ride to the hotel also seems like it’s dragging on eternally. Maybe he should’ve split at the airport, although that would’ve gone down like a lead balloon with the front office; he’s well aware he’s been granted a bit more freedom than he should expect in future. Exceptional circumstances, and all that.  
  
Nick actually suspects someone in the front office is more familiar with vampire biology than they might want to admit, and it doesn’t really count as circumventing the limits of what the team is allowed to do for people with extraordinary abilities if they can claim plausible deniability.  
  
He has his phone out, logged into Uber to set up a ride basically the minute they hit the block the hotel is in, and Nick grabs his bag and then wraps his scarf tighter around his neck, even though it’s starting to warm up enough that he probably doesn’t need it. Maybe spring is coming after all. He jams his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting as he steps back out onto the sidewalk to wait, and resists the urge to fuck around with his phone, ignoring the couple of knowing comments he gets from his teammates as they head indoors, although he does flip Hammer off after he tries to give Nick some ‘helpful’ last minute advice.  
  
Nick sends Brandon a quick message when he’s on his way; it seems like the right thing to do, even if he’s maybe five minutes away if that. He has to quell a rising sense of anticipation, nervous in a way he hasn’t been in a long time, and he’s distracted enough that he tries to pick up his backpack with the wrong hand as he gets out of the car.  
  
He hisses and drops it, freezing for a moment before reaching out with his other hand to swing it up and onto his back, and luckily his driver either didn’t notice or just couldn’t care less, because the car vanishes back into the stream of traffic moments later.  
  
Nick digs the keycard for the front door out of his pocket, kicks the remnants of the slushy snow from the sidewalk off his boots and pushes in through the double doors. He’s not particularly watching where he’s going, heading to the elevator on autopilot, which means he doesn’t actually see Brandon until he walks right into him.  
  
“You made good time,” Brandon says cheerfully, hands coming up to rest lightly on Nick’s shoulders, and Nick’s head snaps up.  
  
“Didn’t think I’d remember where to go?” he jokes after a moment, although the way he’d just stared at Brandon’s face for a few seconds too long was probably a dead giveaway that he wasn’t quite as calm as he’s trying to sound.  
  
“Thought you might want a hand with your bags,” Brandon says, just as straight-faced, and he reaches out like he’s going to try to take Nick’s backpack.  
  
Nick appreciates the gesture, but also, “I’m not that injured,” he argues, and leans out of Brandon’s reach, which seems counter-intuitive, really, since that’s the exact opposite of what he wants to do. But they’re in public still, and that means they have to at least pretend to observe the proprieties.  
  
Brandon gives him a tiny smile, and wrinkles his nose at him like Nick’s the one being weird, when he apparently _staked out his own lobby_ or whatever, but all he says is, “Well, come on up,” and Nick follows him to the elevator.  
  
They don’t touch there, either; although Nick’s standing close enough to Brandon to feel the heat of his skin, is pretty sure he can sense the faintest echo of Brandon’s heartbeat even from this distance, steady and strong and familiar. It’s not that Nick’s particularly worried about someone seeing them, or cameras, or anything like that; he just doesn’t think that when he finally gets his hands on Brandon again that he’s going to want to stop any time soon.  
  
When they reach his floor, Brandon kicks a beaten-up sneaker out of the doorway, which he’d clearly been using to jam the door open while he was downstairs, and Nick snorts.  
  
“Did you even take your keys down?” he asks, and Brandon looks sheepish, and doesn’t answer. “Oh my god, dude, what would you have done if you’d locked yourself out?”  
  
“I had my phone,” Brandon protests, and Nick’s not sure how many times Brandon’s made ‘thank you’ cookies for the Super and half his neighbors, but given the dull red flush high on his cheekbones he’s going to figure it’s heading towards double digits by this point.  
  
“Uh huh,” Nick says skeptically, and dumps his bag by the couch, rolling his shoulders to try and stretch out after two hours on a plane and then a whole lot more sitting in the bus and in the car after that.  
  
“And you said you had your keys,” Brandon adds, clearly just remembering that fact and trying to play it off like he’d been planning that argument all along. Nick might know all of his tells by now, and that should maybe not be as satisfying as it is.  
  
“Would’ve served you right if I didn’t,” Nick says, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“Oh?” Brandon says. “Then just think how much longer you’d have had to wait for me to do this, then,” and quick as anything, he’s stepping into Nick’s space, crowding him against the arm of the sofa, leaning in to brush a fast kiss over his lips.  
  
Brandon pulls back just a fraction after that, eyes open the whole time, watching Nick. He seems happy with whatever he sees there, though, because Nick only has enough time to think, “oh thank fuck,” and get his hands on Brandon’s hips before he leans in again for a longer and much dirtier kiss.  
  
Nick’s thumb slides right under the top of his pants, going right for skin, and Brandon makes a soft sound against his mouth and shifts, leaning into Nick’s touch. Brandon’s pressing closer in a way that makes Nick’s thumb slide along the line of his hipbone, slipping down and closer to his dick, dragging at the waistband of his pants. Nick’s hard already, has been pretty much since he stepped off the plane, anticipating this moment. He can feel that Brandon is too, his dick obvious enough where he’s pressed tight up against Nick, even if the dark color of his khakis had disguised that fact until then.  
  
“D’you wanna, bedroom?” Nick manages to suggest a few minutes later, breathing hard and trying not to rub off against the thigh Brandon has pushed between his.  
  
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Brandon says, leaning into Nick, which doesn’t help at all.  
  
Nick braces himself against the side of the couch—it is, thank god, heavy enough that it doesn’t move under their combined weight—and spreads his legs wider, letting Brandon move closer. “Or the couch is good?” he suggests, hand already moving to unbutton Brandon’s pants, and Brandon ducks his face to nuzzle at the side of Nick’s throat, mouth hot and wet on his skin.  
  
Nick’s pretty sure that’s a yes, but he waits a moment just to be sure. Brandon scrapes his teeth over Nick’s shoulder, pushing aside the collar of his shirt to get better access, and then makes an impatient noise when Nick doesn’t do anything else, hands still frozen on the fastening of his pants.  
  
“I really missed you,” Brandon says, quick and quietly, like he’s confessing it. “Can we please—I really want you to fuck me, Leds, please.”  
  
“Fuck,” Nick says, and then it’s like he can’t move fast enough; he’s missed Brandon, missed this, all of it.  
  
He shoves Brandon’s pants down over his hips, takes a moment to be glad they’re loose enough that gravity does most of the work by the time they’re half down his thighs, although he does have to laugh at the picture he makes: face and chest flushed with arousal, creased shirt and pants around his ankles, his underwear hiding nothing. Brandon just gives him a too-patient look and then goes on the attack himself; yanking his own shirt off over his head in one smooth motion, socks and briefs following before Nick’s shirt gets unbuttoned so fast he’s not entirely certain that Brandon didn’t just yank the last few off. Brandon’s hands are familiar and confident as he unbuttons and unzips Nick’s pants, pushes them and his briefs off in one smooth motion, getting his hands on Nick’s ass a second later.  
  
“You wanna do this here?” Nick asks again, because yeah, they’ve fucked around on this couch a lot before, but Brandon also got kind of cranky about cleaning up last time.  
  
“You can afford the dry cleaning bill,” Brandon says with a grin, but his eyes are serious and his hands are steady as he pulls Nick over and down onto the couch with him. Brandon swings his legs up easily, and Nick gets a knee either side of his thighs, settling over his hips, can’t bite back the noise he makes as they line up. Brandon’s dick is hard against his stomach, the head shiny-wet, and Nick reaches out automatically.  
  
And then he can’t quite bite back the hiss of pain or hide the way he flinches when that proves to be more than the range of motion he has in that wrist right now, he’d been too turned on to remember to be careful for a whole five minutes.  
  
“Oh shit,” Brandon says, sitting up in a hurry, and nearly knocking heads with Nick in the process. “I forgot, are you okay, should we move, can I—?”  
  
“Saader,” Nick says, interrupting him when it’s clear that Brandon’s just going to keep talking if Nick doesn’t give him an answer soon. “It’s fine, I just—gimme a second, okay?”  
  
“Right,” Brandon says, brows drawn together. “Sorry.”  
  
“Pretty sure you don’t need to apologize when I’m the one failing to touch your dick,” Nick says ruefully, and Brandon grins back at him, looking more settled, if a little ridiculous considering he’s still naked under Nick, squirming a little on the couch.  
  
“Okay,” Nick says when he’s caught his breath, and cooled off enough to actually think about this instead of just thinking with, well, his dick. “I’m gonna get up, I can’t—I don’t have the leverage with my wrist, but maybe if you’re on top…?” He’s running through the scenarios in his head, and yeah, he can’t think of a way he can fuck Brandon laid out like this, not if he can’t put more weight on both hands, not without this turning into some kind of perverted core strength exercise, but if Brandon rides him—  
  
Nick bites his own lip, imagining, because yeah, he’d be into that, that sounds really good.  
  
“Fine by me,” Brandon says, still shifting restlessly under him, and god, Nick just wants to touch him all over again. He wants to trace the line of muscle and the spread of fine dark hair over his chest and belly, darkening and thicker around his dick, his skin soft and pale from how long it’s been since any of them have really been outdoors in the sun.  
  
“I’ve been thinking about this all week,” Nick says, and Brandon’s squirming gets more pronounced.  
  
“Nick, you gotta—you have to get up, if you want me to move,” Brandon says after a minute, and oh, right, Nick needs to stop getting distracted.  
  
He climbs off the couch again, giving Brandon space to get to his feet as well, and that’s as good a time as any to remember to dig through the pockets of his jacket for his wallet to grab a condom, and by the time he’s come up with that Brandon’s found lube and tossed that towards the couch as well.  
  
“Did you just stash that under the coffee table today, or...?” Nick asks, slightly curious. He thinks Brandon has other people over often enough that someone would’ve noticed and commented if it was just still there from the last time they’d hooked up in here.  
  
“Uh,” Brandon says, which is as good as a yes. Nick kind of loves that he’d thought ahead this much. “C’mon already, Leds.”  
  
“Right,” Nick says, and then, “You sure about the couch?”  
  
“Oh my god,” Brandon says, more exasperated than turned on if the degree of eye-rolling is anything to go by. “Do you want to get off now, or what?”  
  
“Now’s good,” Nick says, and sits down in a hurry, slouching enough that he can tip his head back onto the cushions to look up at Brandon. He scoots forward a little too, making enough room for Brandon to fit on top of him easily; Nick knows how this goes by now, that’s for sure.  
  
“This work?” Brandon asks, as he climbs into Nick’s lap, grabbing the back of the couch to brace himself until he’s settled, heavy and warm over Nick’s thighs, solid and all too real.  
  
“Yeah,” Nick says, letting his hands rest over top of Brandon’s quads, letting his good hand curve back up toward his hip, anchoring his fingers in the muscle of his ass. Brandon shudders a little, leaning into the touch, and ducks his head down to kiss Nick again, straining forward to try and grind into him.  
  
Nick’s abruptly done with making himself wait, it’s been so long since they got to do this, and he’s desperate to get off already, to feel Brandon plastered to him, around him, to make him come. Hard and fast is going to have to be good enough; he’s pretty sure neither of them is going to be all that picky. They’ve only got a limited amount of time, anyway.  
  
“Lube?” he asks, can hear the way his voice has gotten rougher already, tense with arousal. Brandon leans back to grab it from the table, and Nick just looks his fill, gaze trailing from broad shoulders down his chest and then further, over his belly and thighs and back to his dick, hard and leaking.  
  
Brandon moves like he’s about to offer the bottle to Nick but then thinks better of it, wetting his own hand and arching his back, twisting to finger himself. He’s moving faster than Nick usually would, which Nick tries to make a mental note of for next time, but he’s pretty sure he’s not going to remember; he’s too busy leaning forward enough to look over Brandon’s shoulder, watching his fingers disappear inside, two and then three.  
  
It’s captivating enough that Nick forgets how much he wants to do that himself, just stares at Brandon’s easy movements, cataloging the way his breath hitches. It makes Nick’s mouth go dry and his face feel hot, his fingertips buzzing and electric, his balls aching. When Nick’s gaze comes back to his face Brandon is biting his own lip, eyes squeezed closed, frowning as he concentrates. He flicks the cap to the lube open and wets his hand again, sloppily enough that Nick can feel a few stray drops run off the side of his palm to land on his own skin, tiny cool spots that just last a moment.  
  
“Condom,” Brandon reminds him, and Nick’s the one holding them up then, fishing around for the packet, getting Brandon to kneel up long enough that he can get it on, trying not to jerk forward as he touches himself. He’s pretty sure he’s not going to last long at all.  
  
“Awesome,” Brandon says, before Nick can even say anything else, and he reaches back to run his hand—still wet with lube—over Nick’s cock. He’s careful, but it’s still enough pressure to make Nick hiss and squirm, automatically trying to chase the sensation. Maybe later he’ll get Brandon to just get him off like that, Nick’s always loved his hands.  
  
He doesn’t have time to ask for it then, though, because Brandon’s lifting up—and Nick’s been on that side of this position, has to admire the steady grace that he moves with, the way he holds his balance even as the couch cushions compact under his knees and threaten to tilt him sideways—and then he’s lining himself up. Brandon has a hand on his shoulder and the other on his dick, keeping them both where they should be, and it doesn’t seem to take more than a moment for him to sink down onto Nick.  
  
It’s so hot that Nick almost forgets to move for a second, not that he can do much, with Brandon’s weight centered over him, around him, anchoring him in the present. He can feel himself starting to sweat, the back of his neck and every part of his skin that’s touching Brandon’s feeling too-hot, stickier and more slippery with every passing moment.  
  
Brandon shifts a little more, like he’s finding his equilibrium, and then he starts to move, clenching around Nick’s cock in a way that makes them both moan. Nick gets his hands back onto Brandon’s hips fast, barely even notices his wrist now, his head spinning, too thoroughly distracted to really be aware of the lingering ache. He catches Brandon’s rhythm easily, moving with him, driving up as much as he can, and it’s so fucking good, Nick has to tell him how good it is, tripping over his consonants as his teeth dig into his lip. God, it’s so good, he’s been desperate for this, wants to gorge himself on it.  
  
Brandon doesn’t manage much in the way of response then and there, though. His breath is sobbing out, interspersed with these low moans that just get Nick even hotter, like he can’t help himself, all the same sounds that Nick’s had to get used to hearing over a phone line or through an internet connection, and they’re hot enough then, but in person—  
  
It’s not that Nick had forgotten how much he likes sex with Brandon, but fuck, he really kind of had.  
  
“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Nick manages to say, letting his head fall forward to rest against Brandon’s shoulder. He can feel the scratch of his beard against his temple when he ducks his head into the curve of Brandon’s neck, breathing him in, dragging his lips over the line of his collar. Brandon slows down a little then, and Nick can feel the way he’s breathing fast in the rapid rise and fall of his ribcage, in the puff of air over the side of his head and onto the top of his shoulders.  
  
“You can,” he says, and Nick’s not sure what he means; he’s not exactly going to set any endurance records here, but he’s pretty sure he can last long enough to get Brandon off first, if nothing else.  
  
That’s a good reminder, actually, and he reaches out blindly for the lube— which has its cap still off, and hopefully neither of them put a hand on it long enough to spill it everywhere, whoops—and gets his palm and fingers good and wet before curling them around Brandon’s dick, letting muscle memory for how he likes to be touched take over. Brandon shudders hard, and when Nick leans back far enough to look at his face again his eyes are open, wide and a little wild, unfocused as he concentrates on the way they’re moving together.  
  
“Saader?” Nick asks carefully, bringing his attention back. “What do you need?” and Brandon blinks a few times and then catches his gaze. Nick tries to give him the same steady focus in return but it’s difficult to do more than put a couple words together with Brandon riding his dick like that, fuck.  
  
“You should bite me already,” Brandon specifies, letting his head fall back, throat exposed, slowing his movements enough that he’s only just rocking his hips, letting Nick’s cock drag inside him in the best possible way.  
  
Nick had somehow managed to forget that entirely, lost in the rush of how good he felt, distracted enough even with—now that he is thinking about it—his teeth fully extended and pressing lightly into his lip, the faintest pinprick of hunger. But now that he is, it’s impossible not to notice the way that his mouth is practically watering, that he’s having to swallow hard before he can speak.  
  
“I can wait,” he tries to say, determined not to be entirely self-absorbed, but all Brandon has to say is, “ _Don’t_ , I want it.”  
   
Brandon’s already invited him in every way possible, so Nick gives himself up at that point, surrenders to impulse and lets his mouth fasten to the side of Brandon’s neck. He finds the sweet spot almost immediately, the point where the vein rises closest to the skin, hot and heady and fuck Brandon smells good, tastes better. Brandon shivers when Nick bites down, tiny tremors rippling over his skin, and he jerks forward and comes all over the both of them when Nick sucks hard over the broken skin.  
  
Nick swallows almost frantically, because it’s good, it’s so good, Nick can’t believe he’s gone this long without doing this. He feels almost drunk on it, the hit of the taste and the swooping all-encompassing sheer pleasure of it, feeling of all the parts of himself that he’s been steadily ignoring for weeks coming back to life in a blinding rush. It’s not quite the same as getting off, kissing-cousins to that, maybe, but it winds him up even tighter all the same, the bright coppery taste making his nerve endings spark all over. That’s enough to trip him over the edge, his balls drawing up tight and back arching as he comes, hands gripping tight at Brandon’s hips. He’s not feeling any pain at all from his wrist now, the last twinges washing away with the endorphin rush, and with his face still buried in the side of Brandon’s neck, he’s not quite sure which half of that was the catalyst for the other.  
  
He chases the taste a little longer even as the rest of his body starts to relax, still has enough self-control left to make sure he doesn’t take too much. This is definitely going to leave a mark, though, and he’s probably bruising Brandon all to shit. Normally he’d worry more about that, but it’s just too good, especially with Brandon clinging to him just as desperately, telling him how good he feels, slurring his words and mumbling like he’s the one with a mouth full of teeth that don’t quite fit.  
  
Nick goes to pull back then, starts licking over the skin to close it up. He doesn’t think he took too much but it’s probably time to stop, at least until after he gets a solid meal into _Brandon_ , too. He tries to sit up straighter then; he wants to kiss Brandon again, glad as ever that Brandon doesn’t seem to mind the taste of his own blood, never seems to even notice it because he kisses Nick just as hard after Nick bites him as he does the rest of the time. When he starts moving, though, Brandon just makes a low noise of complaint and pulls his hair, dragging Nick’s mouth over to the other side of his neck, mumbling, “C’mon, just a little more.”  
  
Nick looks at him hard, wants to be so careful—not gentle, necessarily, but careful, absolutely, always—and okay, yeah, he thinks Brandon will be fine. He’s not taking much this time though, just nips at the unmarked skin and then licks over the scratch that he’s made, taking a slow sweet mouthful. Brandon moans again and arches up under him, the whole line of his body tight against Nick, his dick hot where it’s pressed against Nick’s belly, just starting to soften.  
  
“Thank you,” Nick says softly, when Brandon doesn’t seem inclined to move much at all, all his weight going heavily onto Nick, pressing him back into the upholstery.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Brandon says just as quietly, like it’s a reflex, and Nick’s not sure he’s going to get anything sensible out of him for a couple minutes yet if past performance is anything to go by. Brandon’s always been one of those guys who’s either asleep five minutes after he gets off or the next best thing to it, Nick’s not expecting that to change at this late date.  
  
He should move, he thinks, make them both more comfortable, but that seems too difficult for long minutes, easier just to let everything settle back down to earth again naturally, till they’re breathing in sync and Nick’s heartbeat isn’t echoing fast and frantic in his ears anymore. He can barely feel Brandon’s pulse by then, either, just the faintest suggestion of it like an undercurrent to their conversation, and Nick feels full and satisfied in a way he can’t quite remember feeling since the off-season, maybe.  
  
“We should move,” Nick says out loud at last, reluctantly, because even if Brandon’s maybe lost some muscle mass since December this still isn’t exactly a comfortable position and his thighs are starting to go a little numb.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Brandon says, but his eyes are closed and Nick’s pretty sure if they don’t move now then Brandon’s going to actually fall asleep like this which would be...awkward, to say the least.  
  
He digs his nails into Brandon’s sides, just high enough to get him where he knows he’s ticklish, and Brandon’s eyes open as he squirms away, wide with betrayal.  
  
“Leds,” he protests, but when Nick gives him a meaningful look he sighs and braces himself on Nick’s shoulders again, letting Nick’s hands on his hips help him up and back to his feet.  
  
He makes a face as they separate, and Nick’s pretty sure he’s making a similar one; he’s over-sensitive enough now that even that much pressure on his dick leaves him uncertain whether he wants to squirm away or push for seconds some time soon.  
  
Brandon looks steadier by the time he’s back on his feet, and when Nick glances up at his face he’s just a little red, doesn’t look pale or like his blood pressure’s dropping, which is all good.  
  
Nick deals with the condom then, following Brandon into the bathroom to clean up. He hadn’t stopped to look at the couch very closely but he’s pretty sure they didn’t make nearly that much of a mess this time. They can check later, for sure, but as Nick crowds Brandon up against the bathroom cabinet to kiss him soft and slow, he’s very aware that all he actually wants to do right then is lie down again.  
  
“You wanna go nap before dinner?” Nick suggests, once they’ve got that out of their systems, and Brandon goes even more pliable against him, happy and somehow even more easy-going than usual.  
  
“Yeah,” he says, “I put on new sheets and everything,” and he sounds so pleased with himself that Nick has to laugh a little, because normally Brandon’s as haphazard about housekeeping things as Nick is. Crawling under fresh linen and curling up with Brandon to sleep sounds basically perfect though, and after the week Nick’s had it’s even easier to appreciate, so that’s exactly what they do.  
  
* * *  
  
Nick surfaces from his nap feeling more clear-headed than he has in weeks, the benefit of getting some in every sense of the phrase. Brandon’s already awake, an extra pillow stuffed behind his head as he does something on his iPad, his ankle hooked over Nick’s, pressed warmly against him from hip to knee.  
  
“Hey,” Nick says, a little croaky with sleep. “How are you, did I say that before?”  
  
Brandon laughs soundlessly at him, but stretches over to put his tablet on the nightstand, rolling onto his side to face him. “I’m good. You look better.”  
  
Nick feels his brow raise without his conscious decision. “Better?”  
  
“You looked kind of—tired? But not quite, I dunno.” Brandon says with a shrug. “You look more like regular Leds now.”  
  
“Thanks. I think?” Nick’s not quite sure how to take that.  
  
“Vamp thing, huh?” Brandon says, with a tiny smile, prodding at Nick’s ribs, letting his palm flatten out before tracing idle circles over Nick’s chest, wriggling closer.  
  
“I guess,” Nick says. “I’ve never. Uh, gone that long without. Was it really noticeable?”  
  
“You seem less tense now,” Brandon says.  
  
“The guys were giving me the gears about being frustrated,” Nick admits. “Apparently you’re not the only one who noticed.”  
  
“Happy to help,” Brandon says, with a laugh that turns into a yawn.  
  
“Are you still tired?” Nick asks. He’s not hinting for anything, not really, but he wouldn’t be opposed to going for round two before they get dinner if Brandon’s up for it.  
  
“Mmm, nah, I feel fine,” Brandon says, and given the way he’s pressed up against Nick’s side now it’s very clear he’s being quite literal. “Really good. Can’t even feel the bruise from where Shawzy got me good with a puck at practice this morning, so thanks for that.”  
  
“Huh, what?” Nick says, blinking. Is Brandon saying—?  
  
“You’re better than Tylenol,” Brandon says with a grin. “Also, more fun.”  
  
“I think I’m insulted,” Nick says, pulling a mock-outraged face at the smug grin Brandon’s wearing, although it’s probably obvious he’s just talking shit given how Nick’s running his free hand up and down Brandon’s side, enjoying the way it makes him shudder. “Better than _Tylenol_? Why do I even like you again?”  
  
“Definitely more effective,” Brandon says. “Also, in case you somehow forgot an hour ago, we have really great sex. Not just because of how good it feels after.”  
  
“Well, I guess I can live with that,” Nick says loftily, looking up at the ceiling for a moment before he can’t hold the poker face anymore, has to grin back at Brandon. “And since my wrist feels a hell of a lot better, thanks to you, how do you feel about me blowing you before we get dinner?”  
  
Brandon opens his mouth, can’t seem to put words together at first, and then finally manages, “I feel good about that, yeah,” and that’s all Nick needs to hear before he rolls over, getting Brandon onto his back and then kicking the covers down to the foot of the bed.  
  
They’re late for dinner.  
  
* * *  
  
Nick catches himself humming around his toothbrush while he finishes getting ready for bed later that evening, content with his place in the world, feeling like his feet are on solid ground again for the first time in a while. It’s kind of astonishing what getting laid—and everything else—does for his frame of mind, he figures.  
  
Brandon steps around him to grab his own toothbrush, hip-checking him gently out of the way so he can spit into the sink in turn. It’s the same kind of tiny domestic moment they’ve probably had half a hundred times, both before and after they were even together.  
  
“So, I was thinking,” Brandon says, and Nick tosses his toothbrush back into his bag, stepping back to lean against the wall while he waits for Brandon to finish his sentence. “This has been kind of a shitty week, huh?”  
  
“It got a lot better today,” Nick says, but doesn’t argue the point.  
  
“Yeah, but. You’d have felt better if you hadn’t had to wait to see me, right?” Brandon asks. “Uh, vampire-wise, that is.”  
  
“Probably,” Nick agrees, cautious, because he doesn’t have the faintest idea of where Brandon’s going with this. They both know this, but since it’s not like either of them is going to request a trade, it’s not like there’s much they can do about it.  
  
“I know it’s a weird situation, when you can’t get blood the usual way,” Brandon starts. “And that’s probably not going to last much longer, right?”  
  
“Another week or so, last I saw,” Nick says. “So, yeah.”  
  
“I was thinking about it more, and I think you should just—if you need to, you should bite other people,” Brandon says after a too-long pause, the words coming out all in a rush, and Nick’s eyebrows are practically up to his hairline by the time he actually parses the sentence.  
  
“But I— Do you want to break up?” he asks, disbelieving, because what the fuck, Brandon.  
  
“No!” Brandon says instantly. “Just, you said Tavares was down with it, or you could pick up someone else if you didn’t want to mess with the team, whatever. I’d be okay with it, if you’re on the road or whatever you need to. That’s all. I just wanted to say. It’s not, I mean. I wouldn’t think of it as cheating.”  
  
“Are you giving me a _road pass_?” Nick asks, genuinely shocked. Brandon’s so mature and quiet and polite so much of the time that sometimes Nick forgets he’s a couple of years younger, and he doesn’t expect this kind of thing from him. This isn’t why Nick had told him what Hammer said, he hadn’t been angling for _permission_ , or anything like that, and he should maybe check that Brandon knows that, too.  
  
Brandon shrugs, toeing the corner of the tile and looking at his feet, not at Nick. “I guess?”  
  
He does look up after that, though, leaning back against the vanity to catch Nick’s gaze. “I really would be okay with it,” he reiterates.  
  
“Even if I—if I hooked up with someone while I was biting them?” Nick asks, even though he’s not sure he should.  
  
They didn’t talk about this much the other night, but if there’s anything that biting Brandon this afternoon has clarified for him, it’s that he really, really doesn’t know how to do that without being attracted to the person he’s getting his teeth into. He can believe that Hammer can do it, sure, but Nick’s pretty sure if he bit someone—Johnny, taking an example not entirely at random—he’d want more.  
  
Brandon shrugs again. “Yeah. I mean. I’d want you to tell me about it. I think. But, like. It seems healthier.”  
  
Nick’s not sure anyone else would believe that, but Brandon seems convinced.  
  
He thinks about it for a long moment, chewing on his lip—with purely human teeth, this time; he’d definitely got the vamp urges out of his system well and truly earlier in the day—and trying to work out how he feels about this. It’s probably going to be something they need to come back to again later, need to talk about more, but in the interim—  
  
“I, um. Thanks,” he says. “I mean, like you said, this isn’t going to happen all that often, I can’t think of any other time I’d _need_ to—” “Just in case,” Brandon interrupts him, stubborn in the way that he can be on rare occasions. “Then yeah, just in case, maybe,” Nick finishes. “But right now I really don’t want to bite anyone but you.”  
  
“I’m not going to complain about that,” Brandon says, and steps forward, gets his hands on Nick’s face and holds him steady for a surprisingly sweet kiss, considering Brandon tastes like Nick’s least favorite toothpaste.  
  
Nick pulls away after a few minutes, because as good as that is, Brandon bringing up not-entirely comfortable subjects has reminded him of what he’d actually wanted to talk about, and it seems as good a time as any. If nothing else, they’re not actually naked this time, which puts it a couple steps above most of their serious relationship talks to date. Not that Nick entirely objects to that tradition.  
  
“Hey,” he starts, and Brandon raises an eyebrow, but seems to get from Nick’s expression that he’s doing more than putting the brakes on turning that kiss into something else. “I wanted to check in with you about something else. How do you feel about me telling people?”  
  
“I thought you told the whole team when you first got sent to Long Island?” Brandon says, leaning back against the sink, frowning.  
  
“Not about occasionally biting people,” Nick clarifies. “About, uh, who I’m biting.”  
  
“Oh,” Brandon says, blinking fast, and Nick doesn’t think he’s kidding himself when he thinks that a little tension has gone out of Brandon’s posture at that, that he looks pleased rather than nervous.  
  
“Yeah,” Nick says. “I mean, most of our friends know? And I’d like to be open with them, too.”  
  
“Did you want to—just the team, or what?” Brandon asks, a little delicately, and Nick has been thinking about this, has turned it over in his mind a few times now, and while he wants to be open with his teammates, trusts them... he doesn’t really want the spotlight or the increased attention that doing anything more public than that would bring.  
  
“Just them, right now,” Nick says. “Is that okay?”  
  
“That’s about where I’m at,” Brandon says. “I guess it’s easier for me, the guys here already knew—”  
  
“I don’t know if getting shit from Shawzy for months on end quite counts as easier,” Nick puts in.  
  
He’s copped a fair bit of chirping over text, which means Brandon has to be getting triple that in person since he’s still seeing Shawzy on a nearly daily basis, but Brandon just shrugs at him, waving it off, and keeps talking.  
  
“—and it seems, I dunno, fair? If your teammates know too. You think they’ll be okay about it?”  
  
“Yeah, I think so. I’m, uh, not the only guy swinging that way, apparently,” Nick says. “So I’m pretty sure they’ll be cool.”  
  
“Oh,” Brandon says, taking that in. “Is that why Hamonic—?”  
  
“No, not Hammer,” Nick says, belatedly recalling that he’d meant to mention this the other day too, but there’d been enough going on that he’d never got back to it. “Johnny’s got a long distance guy, too. He dropped that into the conversation really smoothly, and no one even blinked. Apparently it’s an open secret.” He’s also pretty sure telling Brandon that much is fine; it’s not like Brandon’s gonna tell anyone else.  
  
“You’re just jealous of how smooth he is, huh?” Brandon teases him, and Nick feels his cheeks go hot and a little pink.  
  
“I’m not,” he protests, and Brandon just smirks at him some more.  
  
“I guess he is sort of your type,” Brandon adds, finally seeming to get bored with leaning against the sink and walking towards Nick, purposeful and determined. “I can see why you might wanna get on that.”  
  
“Oh my god,” Nick says, trying to ignore how his body’s responding to Brandon getting closer, crowding him into the side of the doorway. He’s very aware of the cool tiles under his feet, the unyielding door frame biting into his shoulder blades, even more aware of Brandon’s bed just steps away, the covers still turned back invitingly. “I’m not—I don’t really want a piece of that, okay, we’re friends.”  
  
“Just keep telling yourself that, Leds,” Brandon says, still looking much more amused by this than Nick feels is quite warranted. “You get this look sometimes when you talk about how he plays.”  
  
“He’s just really good at hockey,” Nick protests, and when Brandon snorts he has to admit that, okay, so maybe he does have a type, just a little. Tall, dark, quiet—kind of dorky, even—and good at hockey. That describes someone else a lot closer, too, that’s for sure, and that’s the guy Nick wants to get his hands back on right then, so he does.  
  
* * *  
  
Waking up in Brandon’s bed the next morning is one of the better things that’s happened to Nick all week, but it’s also disconcerting.  
  
It doesn’t feel a whole lot like a game day, even though their alarms go off early and they trade off showers and fixing breakfast and don’t talk a whole lot until Brandon’s finished his cup of tea and has his eyes all the way open, more ready to face the day by then. Nick’s used to waiting for him to wake up that much, and has to fight the urge to just drag him right back to bed, because despite what his subconscious keeps thinking this isn’t actually a vacation, and they don’t have all day. He does lean across the kitchen table to kiss him, and then steals a forkful of his breakfast, because Nick’s feeling actually hungry— _normally_ hungry—for the first time in weeks and he wants to enjoy it.  
   
The reflexive noise of protest that Brandon makes is fun, too.  
  
“You suck,” Brandon grumbles, and hovers his fork protectively over the last of his eggs, and Nick’s not dumb enough to think he won’t actually try to stick him with it if he tries that again.  
  
“Maybe later,” Nick replies on automatic, even though he knows he’s making a promise he can’t keep; they’ll be out of the UC as soon as they can that night, the Hawks and Isles both headed back to New York for the second half of their respective back-to-backs. If he’s lucky, he’ll see Brandon in passing, but this morning is pretty much it until after the playoffs and they both know it.  
  
Brandon grumbles again, and finishes eating, getting up to rinse both his plate and Nick’s before sitting back down at the table again, scooting his chair closer so he can lean against Nick. He’s warm where they’re touching, shoulders together, and heat is radiating through the thin shirt he’d thrown on first thing, one that’s a little too big and has the neck stretched out, and that, on slightly longer reflection, Nick is pretty sure was actually his six months ago. Not that he hasn’t come home with some of Brandon’s gear on occasion; it was probably bound to happen when they wear the same size pretty much and sometimes have to get dressed in a hurry.  
  
Technically, he doesn’t have to be at the UC until after Brandon does; the home team have the ice first and all that, but something about the idea of getting a ride in with him feels off, even though it would make sense, and probably no one would notice or even look twice.  
  
That gets reinforced when he finishes re-packing his bag and turns to Brandon to say, “Uh, I think I should go back to the hotel and bus in with the guys,” and Brandon just nods, looking neither surprised nor disappointed.  
  
“Sounds good, Leds,” he says, and then, “I don’t have to get changed and leave for another twenty, though,” and Nick’s fine with that, that works out perfectly.  
  
He might be in his suit already, planning on getting straight on the bus and not changing again until he’s getting ready to skate—and fuck is he ever ready for that—but Brandon’s not, and Nick takes deliberate advantage of that to crowd him back onto the couch and mess him up a little. He gets his hands in his hair and under his shirt and shifs on top of him just enough to be certain Brandon’s hard, till he’s breathing fast and ragged and straining up under Nick. It backfires just a bit because really he’s teasing both of them, they don’t have time to do anything else. And it’s a game day for Brandon at least, which means Nick keeps his teeth covered even as he drags his lips down Brandon’s neck, doesn’t even nip him a little when he sucks hard at a patch of skin just under his collar.  
  
By the time Nick’s phone buzzes in his pocket to let him know his car is there, the bruise has started to bloom, a tiny dark pink mark that’ll be hidden under Brandon’s shirt and tie when he leaves the house, under his jersey when he’s on the ice. But Nick’ll know it’s there, even from the press box, and that makes him feel slightly better about the prospect of leaving.  
  
And about the idea of watching Brandon play and hoping he _doesn’t_ win, without the distraction of needing to focus on his own game.  
  
And about the conversation he’s going to have with his teammates some time soon, maybe even today.  
  
“Shit, okay, I have to go,” he says, pulling away reluctantly, letting Brandon straighten his clothes as he sits up and then gets to his feet. “This was—this was great, okay, I’ll talk to you later?”  
  
“Sure thing, Nick,” Brandon says, but he leans in for one last quick, close-mouthed kiss before following Nick to the door, checking with him that he’s got everything as he picks up his bag and stuffs his feet back into his shoes, shuffling on the mat to get them on without bothering to unlace them.  
  
“Good luck,” Brandon adds, and when Nick raises an eyebrow at him he gives him a shove to the upper arm, his left one, and there’s not even a twinge from his wrist now, fuck yeah, Nick is back in business, “—to you, not your team. Let me know how things go.”  
  
“Yeah,” Nick says, “I will. I’ll say hi later if I can, too,” and the smile Brandon gives him at that is worth any amount of awkward lingering around the visitors locker room and lurking in the corridors outside.  
  
Half of his ex-teammates will probably be around to say hi after practice anyway, it’s not going to be a stretch at all for Nick to steal a minute or five with Brandon then, too. But he’s got other things to focus on before that, and it’s time to turn his attention back to them.  
  
“Bye, Brandon,” he says, and steps out into the corridor, jogging down the stairs rather than waiting for the elevator, and apparently his app had been overestimating things, because by the time he gets down to the sidewalk the car’s just pulling up and not, as he’d been slightly worried might happen, giving up in disgust and stranding him.  
  
* * *  
  
Nick doesn’t say much when he gets back to the hotel, or in the team meetings before they leave. It’s not like he’s playing, so he doesn’t have a whole lot to contribute through video review or the new powerplay setup that Doug wants them to try. He stows his bags in the room he hadn’t used the night before, since he’s going to have to nap somewhere, and then silently trails the other guys onto the bus when they’re ready to leave. Boych sits beside him without comment, although he does give him a “C’mon, kid,” when they pull into the lot and Nick doesn’t get up right away.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Nick says, and gets up to follow him into the visitor’s locker room. It’s probably the one place in the UC he hasn’t been until now.  
  
It’s almost a relief after that to find that he can focus just fine; he’s let himself have that moment of cognitive dissonance, and now everything’s snapping back into place, right where it should be. The room is about as loud as ever while they change before practice, guys cheerfully giving each other shit as they get ready for the day.  
  
It’s definitely a relief to be in his practice gear again, even if he’s stuck in the no-contact jersey, and Nick’s looking forward to getting out on the ice, making sure he hasn’t lost a step over the last week and a bit.  
  
Their morning skate is getting closer to an afternoon skate by the time they’re cleared to go out on the ice, but it’s still good, and Nick comes off the ice cautiously optimistic, pretty sure that he feels close enough to normal that he could probably play that afternoon if they needed him to.  
  
He’s feeling good enough that it probably bleeds through into his interviews when they file back into the locker room afterward, and considering he’s got more of those than anyone else for once that’s probably all for the best. The fact they’re all familiar faces helps too; he doesn’t have to guess how they’re going to take a comment if he’s not completely careful with his words, which is a nice change. It’s still easier to relax once the media have all filed out again, though, sagging back into his stall to just breathe for a minute before he starts to peel the tape off his socks, focusing on undressing and nothing else.  
  
“Looked good out there today, Leds,” Bailey says encouragingly, on his way to the showers, and Nick grins at him, says, “Thanks, man,” without thinking much of it.  
  
“Look like you’re feeling pretty good too,” Boych says, raising an eyebrow meaningfully, and even though he doesn’t want to, Nick feels himself blush just a little. And that’s basically an open invitation for a few of the other guys to chime in too. He takes the chirping with good grace for a minute or so, and then figures that, well, it’s as good a time as any, right?  
  
“Yeah, I had a good night,” Nick says, lets himself smirk over at Hammer and Matty, and the teasing gets a lot more x-rated fast.  
  
A quick glance around the room confirms that it’s definitely just the team and their equipment guys in the room, no media lingering for one last quote or anything. Some of the guys are in the showers already, but Nick doesn’t exactly want to make a big announcement about this, so if it filters through the room more slowly then that’s fine by him too. He pulls his shirt over his head, scratches at the base of his throat for a second in what even he knows is a delaying tactic, and then adds, “I hadn’t got to see Saader since the All Star break, so. We caught up.”  
  
There’s a suspiciously silent moment while Matt and Travis frown at him, but Cal’s the one who puts it together first, leans over to give him a solid shot to the biceps and says, “Damn, Leds.”  
  
“What’s Leddy done?” Stromer asks, wandering back past them, towel wrapped around his hips and his face pink from the shower, hair damp.  
  
“Finally got some,” Hammer says succinctly. “You didn’t notice how he’s back to normal today?”  
  
“Leds is never normal,” Stromer says, attempting to be cutting, and Nick throws a ball of tape at his head on principle and tells him to fuck off.  
  
“So you ditched us for Saad last night, huh?” Johnny asks, a little too casually.  
  
Nick straightens his shoulders and catches his eyes, holding his gaze while he says, “Yeah. I did.”  
  
“Wait a minute,”  Matt says, “Do you mean—”  
  
“Figured if we’re in town I should see my boyfriend,” Nick says, and it echoes inside his head for a long moment. It’s nothing more than the truth, and yet it still feels like a leap of faith, a step he hasn’t made very often, and even though he doesn’t mean to, he’s holding his breath while he waits to see how the guys paying attention to this conversation take it.  
  
“That’s cool,” Cal says with a nod, and then goes right back to getting changed.  
  
“Normally I’d say something about you sleeping with the enemy,” JT says, voice as low and steady as ever, although by now at least Nick knows him well enough to hear the faintly amused edge that says he’s just giving him shit for the sake of it. “But since it seems to mean we get you back on the blueline a few days early, you get a pass this time.”  
  
“Just like Johnny does in Phoenix,” Hammer says, not bothering to lower his voice at all, and Matt and Cal and Travis all snort appreciatively at that. Johnny just pretends not to hear him.  
  
“Good talk, Leds,” Matt says, scrubbing a hand through his hair before he turns back to his own temporary stall. “Thanks for telling us,” and the last tiny coil of tension that had been holding Nick upright with his back almost painfully straight dissolves at that. It’s fine, just like he’d thought—like he’d hoped—it’s fine, and now all he has to worry about is getting their season back on track with a good push before the playoffs. Piece of cake.  
  
* * *  
  
Like he’s half-expecting, by the time they’re all done in the showers and ready to bus back to the hotel for a couple of hours to eat and nap, there’s a few Hawks lingering in the corridor outside the visitor’s room.  
  
Nick makes his way around, says hi and exchanges fist-bumps, catches up real quick with everyone, even though he had seen most of them in December, too. They’d had a bit more time in Long Island, which had been easier, but this isn’t bad, by any stretch of the imagination. Bicks buttonholes him for a bit to show him the latest pics he has of Makayla, and Nick coos appropriately, gives him and Amanda his congratulations again.  
  
And waiting patiently in the corner, leaning casually against the wall is Brandon. He’s without his usual Shawzy-shaped shadow today, and Nick might wonder about that later, but for now he’s happy to see Brandon again even for just a few minutes in passing, especially since the other guys give them a bit of space. It would be sweet if they weren’t so obvious about it, and Nick’s pretty sure he doesn’t need any better hearing than average to hear Stromer hiss something about not making it weird by staring.  
  
“I’ll just be a minute,” Nick calls over his shoulder at them, even though he knows he can’t be the last one to the bus by any stretch of the imagination; he’s pretty sure Halak and Zeeker are both still in the room if nothing else.  
  
“Take your time,” Okposo calls back, with enough of a smirk that Nick knows they’re well aware of why he’s hanging around, and it has nothing to do with seeing old teammates. The other Hawks have all made themselves scarce by then anyway, so for a couple of seconds it is just him and Brandon there in the empty hallway.  
  
“You have a good morning?” Brandon asks him quietly, toeing the tiled floor like he’s not sure he should ask.  
  
“Yeah,” Nick says. “Skate was good, I should be back out there pretty soon, maybe this weekend. Uh, thanks.”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” Brandon says, and quirks a grin at him, before letting his expression smooth out again. “I’d say it was my pleasure, but—”  
  
“I think that covers both of us,” Nick says. It seems daring to be having this conversation here, where anyone could walk in on them and hear—or see—and that’s probably the only thing that’s keeping Nick’s hands in his pockets. He’s tempted to lean in, it’d be so easy to kiss Brandon there, but he’s got some self-control at least.  
  
“Mm, okay, yeah,” Brandon says. “You’re not wrong. It was good to… catch up.” There’s a wealth of things unsaid in the way he pauses there, and Nick feels his face get hot, his stomach twist. It just makes him want to touch, like he always does, and he can feel his teeth digging into his bottom lip before he manages to talk his head and his dick back down again. He’s not going to do anything stupid now, not when this day’s been going so well.  
  
“No kidding,” Nick says, and when he meets Brandon’s eyes he can see the way he’s wound up too, the curl of heat lingering at the edges of his expression, soft and hot and wanting. Yeah, it’s both of them in this, again, same as ever.  
  
“Feel free to visit any time,” Brandon says, biting his own lip, and damn, Nick wants to be the one doing that.  
  
“You know I will,” Nick promises, and then he does take that last step forward, wrapping his arms tight around Brandon and letting himself press his face to the side of his neck for one long second. There’s probably no way to pretend it’s entirely platonic, but this much they can have, and Nick’s had more than enough of denying himself. If he brushes a fast kiss to the side of Brandon’s mouth, well, that’s between him and Brandon.  
  
Unfortunately for both of them, they do have actual responsibilities and Nick can feel those pressing down on him again now, reminding him to get moving already. Yeah, he’s been self-indulgent enough for one day by now.  
  
“Speaking of, though,” Nick says, with a glance down at his watch to check the time. It’s definitely creeping towards the final bus call. “I need to get back, and you should head home for your nap, too. Busy day ahead, you have to go get your ass kicked by my hockey team, and all that.”  
  
“Yeah, you wish,” Brandon says cheerfully, and steals one more kiss, letting his teeth drag over Nick’s lower lip before he finally pulls away.    
  
“Hey, who won the last game?” Nick asks, raising an eyebrow, deliberately letting an edge of obnoxious confidence into his tone.  
  
“Leds?” Brandon says, letting his hands slip down to settle over Nick’s ribcage before giving him a gentle shove back towards the door out to the carpark. “Bite me.”  


**Author's Note:**

> Note: Characters in this story choose to come out to other characters; they are not outed.


End file.
